Ojos de los Muertos
by thesolitary-dragon
Summary: Eyes of the Dead - Twister had always been afraid of ghost stories. Until his thirteenth birthday, when his life became one.
1. Prologue

A/N: Alright....um...first of all, this story is in no way connected to my other RP story. Yes, it is Twister centric (but, dude, he is my favorite character and a lot of the refrences are better designed for his character). I don't know if I will write this story though, or if/when I will continue it. It all depends on your guy's reactions (REVIEWS!).

Anyways, this was inspired by Eerie Queerie! (great graphic novel, very cute! It's shonen ai, aka: boy love, boyXboy, though...if you don't like that thing...this one won't be...though there will be moments I should warn you about. When you find out what the story is about though, it'll make more sense...unlike that sentence.), Hands Off! (another shonen ai-ish graphic novel, so CUTE!), and a story I was forced to read in Spanish II honors about Doña Sebastiana.

This story is rated for GRAPHICAL descriptions of death, and maybe a little language (on Lars' part).

Summary: Twister Rodriguez has always been irrationally afraid of ghost stories, and extremely gullible when it came to the paranormal. So, for good reason, he avoided it all as best he could. That is, until his thirteenth birthday, when his life becamea ghost story.

ENJOY!

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Ojos de los Muertos (Eyes of the Dead)

Prologue: En la Tierra de los Muertos (In The Land Of the Dead)

_I had never seen so much blue. The sky, the water. So clear and blue. It was beautiful. I could feel the force of the waves, pushing me farther under. I could see everything, squeezing my eyes shut, but still seeing it all. The fish, the coral reef, the seaweed, the eels, the jellyfish, the kelp, the sandstone slabs, the curls of blood, everything. And then her._

_Her face was pale, milk white. Smooth as ivory. Hallowed eyes and toothy lips. She wore a swooping hat, and a lavish velvet dress, lined with lace and silk ribbons in her brittle hair, a feather boa draped about her neck. Long white and black button up boots were on her feet, clacking as she pulled up in her cart beside me. A bow hung at her side, arrows plucked at her back. I had seen her face before, but I couldn't remember where. My heart was pounding, but I was not afraid._

_"¿Tu sabe quién soy, el pequeño? (Do you know who I am, little one?)" she asked. I nodded._

_"Usted es muerte, venida para eliminarme (You are death, come to take me away)," I answered solemnly. She extended her thin hand towards me._

_"No, el pequeño. Tu no debe estar aquí. No es su hora de montar en mi carro. Estoy aquí tomarle detrás (No, little one. You should not be here. It is not your time to ride in my cart. I am here to take you back)," she replied carefully. I swallowed hard, reluctant to grasp the bone white, "No esté asustado. Tome mi mano, de modo que pueda volverle donde tu pertenece. (Do not be afraid. Take my hand, so that I may return you where you belong.)" I did as I was told. She was cold to touch, and I shuddered slightly, stepping forward beside her, "Ciérrese los ojos firmemente el pequeño, y no mire. La tierra de los muertos no está para que la vida vea. (Close your eyes tight little one, and do not look. The land of the dead is not for the living to see.)"_

_Once more, I did as I was told, feeling wind rush around me. Claws and thorns dug into my clothes and skin, desperately clinging, desperately attempting to hold me back. I squeezed my eyes shut, wanting to bring my hands up to cover them, so as not to disappoint the Lady Muerte, but unable to do so. It became too much, and finally, my lids parted slightly. And before me lay the land of the dead. _

_Such wonderments and atrocities all at once. Creatures of all shapes and sizes hopped around, fighting over morsels of meat. There was a dead tree, blackened like ebony, with human skulls balanced in the branches. Some were not skulls yet, but heads featuring decaying flesh where maggots and roaches crawled along feasting. The freshest one still leaked blood onto the trunk of the tree, splattering to the ground below. _

_One hobgoblin like creature picked up a silver eye, round with little red veins racing across the sticky pale white. He popped it in his mouth, holding it between his teeth as though it were his third eye, racing around until another larger creature rammed into him, causing the eye to slip down his throat. He gagged, coughing and hacking. _

_There was a woman, so pale that she was almost translucent, wearing a long white bellowing skirt. She was moaning, deep red crimson tears spilling down her cheeks. She lifted her skirts and broken children raced from beneath her. Their skin and faces cracked like porcelain. One child, a little girl, was missing the side of her forehead and I could see into the emptiness of her head straight to the back, and she looked out hollowly to me and screamed._

_There was a long and thin man sitting on a dead stump, with a knobby chin, gray skin, and a black old fashioned suit. He had human hair tied about his long crooked fingers, and was spinning them around, playing cat's cradle and forming little Jacob's ladders. A short plump woman stood behind him, black goop trickling down from her mouth and nose to her chin. She would pull her hair out, long brown strands, and tie them around the thin man's fingers. Her throat was slit from ear to ear, and it would flail open with each movement she made. Part of her head was bald, and little sprouts of brown were already growing back a centimeter a minute it seemed._

_Planted in the middle of it all was a huge wooden cross, of rotting brown. There was a fresh, bright red apple balanced at the top pier, and a man whose skin clung to his bones like sheets, was trying to climb up to it. He would reach the 'T' and find himself stuck, not able to go any further. His fingers would lose their grasp, and he would slide back down to the ground with a sickening thud, his arms and legs twisted and contorted into painfully impossible positions. For a moment he would lie there, limp, and then he would move, awkwardly pulling himself up and straightening his bones. He would look up at the top of the cross once more and lick his dry chapped lips, and begin climbing again._

_I stared at that apple and it lit on fire, though the man and no one else seemed to notice. It blazed brilliantly, the apple melting like wax and dripping down the cross. And it was as though there was a fire in my eyes. I gasped, unable to pull my gaze from that flame, from that land, from the macabre scene laid out before me. I curled my fingers in Lady Muerte's skirts, burying my face in the velvet. It reeked of mothballs and fancy perfume, a comfortingly human smell. My eyes were stinging, scorched from the fire, and still ablaze. But I was finally able to close them once more, with the images of the dead still locked in my mind._

_And she didn't notice as her cart continued forward. There was no way for her to know, that I had peeked at the land of the dead._

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Twister lay awake on his bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly, his heart pounding madly in his chest. He made no move to turn off his alarm clock. He had been awake nearly three hours before it went off, and now he found the familiarly annoying sound a comfort. He was still drenched in sweat.

"Maurice?" a banging came at his door, "Maurice! ¡Despierte!"

"I am awake, mom," he whispered, but his throat was dry and his words came out hoarse and soft. She couldn't hear him.

"¡Maurice, tu será atrasado para la escuela! ¡Salga de cama! (Maurice, you'll be late for school! Get out of bed!)"

There was the sound of plodding, as Twister's mother retreated down the stairs. He frowned, throwing his blankets off his thin frame and rolling onto his belly. His muscles felt sore and his head was throbbing. Any other morning he would have told his mother he didn't feel well, that he couldn't get out of bed, that he was sick. But this morning, he wanted to go to school. He needed the normalcy, and he didn't know why.

Twister knew that dream. He couldn't recall ever having it before, but he knew that dream. It was all so familiar. As though it had all happened before. Déjà vu, he believed they called it. Part of it did happen before, he reminded himself. He remembered the chill of the water, shuddering. He'd only been three, but he still remembered it. Being pulled beneath the waves, the wisps of red surrounding him, the fish nibbling at his skin. He shuddered once more, crossing the room to get dressed.

The dresser was brown, wooden, and still in fairly new condition, reminding Twister of that cross. They were almost the same color. There was a vanity mirror atop it, latched in place and reflecting his parched image back at him. Twister knew who the woman was, in the dream. There was a postcard taped in the corner of his mirror, decorated with a mural done by Diego Rivera. There to the side stood the woman, or more appropriately, the Lady Muerte. Beautiful and fancily dressed, the female skeleton. There in all her deathly symbolic glory was Doña Sebastiana.

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END A/N: I know, I know, you're all horribly confused...and if I do continue with this, it'll be riddled with lots more confusing things, tons of symbolism, and a load of flashbacks on Twister's part. But...ooo, he peeked! How could he peek? How could he? Would you peek? My favorite part of the land of the dead was the woman pulling out her own hair and tying it around that man's fingers so he could play cat's cradle with them. Did you guys like that?

Okay, since I'm probably going to get hunted down and skewered by my Recess fans for this one...I had to write it down! I had to get it out of my head before it overwhelmed me and I became nothing more than a zombie! Oh man...um...I am stuck on my Killing the Daisies story, and I plan on skipping the part I'm stuck on and continuing with the rest, so that when I finally get past being stuck, I'll probably post a lot faster. Spread the word.

A Dim Light in the Dark, I'll have to pause on (though I should tell you, Ricky is _so_ going to get it if he doesn't watch his back. He thinks Twister is a pushover...), Legend of Bandit, I'll get up the next chapter as soon as possible...and...IN A BOX, I will not work on until I finish Killing the Daisies (SORRY LOVOVA)...I should probably be putting this on my bio...in fact...

Anyhoo...if you guys want this story to continue, you better REVIEW like mad. I think...hm...at least five, maybe seven REVIEWs will convince me, unless I get a really heartwrenching long REVIEW from one person...I know, I'm cruel.

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors, and REVIEW, if you want to see more of this story.

THANKS FOR READING.

IT SNOWED! I live in the desert, snow is very rare, and snow sticking to the ground is rarer. BUT IT DID! It's white outside...well...patchy white. See you guys...I hope, it snowed here, so it's the end of the world.

I'm off to work.


	2. Susurros Extraños

A/N: I'm _so_ happy that I get to continue with this story (I got 7 reviews! My maximum! ROCK ON!) because I have so much planned for it. As with all the stories I start. I wasn't sure how everyone would take that...uh...the Land of the Dead...anyways...

Some things I need to say: At first, this is going to seem like it has no real direction; just a bunch of different stories. It's going to have a plot, throughout the whole thing, but the whole thing is going to seem like a great deal of sidestories...does that make sense? No? Oh...well...um...moving on. I mentioned Diego Rivera in the prologue. He's a famous Mexican muralist (if any of you guys didn't know that...though I don't think that...moving on!) A lot of his work featured Dona Sebastiana, and you can even look his name up at alta vista and finda painting done by him with her in it. Um...also, like many other countries, Mexico views death very differently than Americans. Not gonna get into that story. Uh...but my story, just for the sake of this ff, their middle school is from sixth to ninth grade. Schools like that are rare, especially on the west coast, but it was important that Reggie and Sam be going to the same school as Otto and Twister. AND it's _really_ important to the story that Twister be thirteen. So changing the age was out. I think that's about it.

Thanks to you people that reviewed, so that I could continue this fic:

TheAngelofAnarchy: A review from you is always expected, but don't get in trouble with the parentals! Hehehe...I know, I'm posting another chapter of my RP fics...I'm not making any promises about which cartoon ff's I'm going to update anymore, because I always break those promises. It's just whatever I feel like writing at the moment, and because this story hit me hard, it's going to be...THIS STORY! YAY! And my art teacher said..."discipline", and I said, "is useless?" Me thinks you speak of The Legend of Bandit...yup...the second chapter is next on my agenda...of course, I never follow my schedule accordingly...um...glad you liked the hollow headed gal, I'm going to explain the many different aspects of the Land of the Dead later on in the story, so...

PrinceIzzy1:Yay, you've never reviewed one of my fics before. Glad to scare you witless. Beyond gory, you say? I think I can do better than that...

Spice of Life: Too lazy to write to you...HA! j/k. Anyhoo...if somebody else would continue with their fics...not gonna say any names (-cough,cough-Spice of Life-cough-) I would be overjoyed.

goofymonkeychild: You mentioned this Otto Dix dude and I _had _to check out his artwork. I found the picture I believe you were talking about, and I could see where you were coming from. been to hell, before, have we?...hehe...yes, I have in fact. Though, some insane people call it work, insaner still call it Pizza Hut. Going to work when it's the end of the world is nothing. I went to work the day after my cat was put to sleep (I apologize if I break down later on for mentioning this), cried the whole shift, _but _still worked. A few people got tears in their pizza. Oh well.

BlueFirePrincess: I'm glad you loved it. I'm sorry though, that you can't figure out where you've seen the image before. That kind of stuff happens to me all the time. Then, like days later, I'll come up with the answer out of nowhere. It just goes to show, you always find things when you're not looking for them.

Sk8er Chica: I sure hope I don't dissapoint.

peachy15: It had realism to it? Wow, that's the best praise so far, man! I was going for surrealistic, Tim Burton, Edgar Allen Poe, claymation, creep fest, and I'm totally digging that it had a realistic feel to it. Oh, and so you know, you put me at seven reviews. Much love to you. I just feel so elated now!

OKIE DOKIE. So you all know, in the ninth grade I had to write a speech on my idol. Now, some students did theirs on their parents, some on some athlete, some on a older sibling or good friend who overcame some obstacle in life. I did mine on Edgar Allen Poe. So with that said...

ENJOY!

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La Voz Sin Una Boca (The Voice Without A Mouth)

Chapter 1: Susurros Extraños (Strange Happenings)

_Don't ignore me, don't shut me out! I'm here, I exist…LISTEN TO ME!_

Twister jogged his way downstairs, dressed and showered. He paused when he heard the scraping of chairs, shuffle of feet, and clacking of plates and dishware in the kitchen. His parents voices were low, and he heard his name mentioned.

"Él es casi trece, casi hombre ahora (He's almost thirteen, almost a man now.)," Raul, Twister's father, was saying.

"Sé que... es justo... (I know…it's just…)" Sandy, his mother, mumbled.

"Tu se preocupa demasiado, Sandy. Si él desea al campout para su cumpleaños, después déjelo. (You worry too much, Sandy. If he wants to campout for his birthday, then let him.)"

"Tu sabe qué sucede durante esas clases de cosas. Contarán historias del fantasma... (You know what happens during those kinds of things. They'll be telling ghost stories…)"

"Son niños, por supuesto . Déjelos tener su diversión. Él será fino (They're children, of course they will. Let them have their fun. He'll be fine)," Raul insisted.

Twister felt his stomach knot. It had been Otto, Twister's best friend's, idea that he have a campout for his birthday. They would pitch a tent in the mountains and sleep there for the night. Ray, Otto's father, agreed to chaperone, and Twister was more than happy of the idea. He'd forgotten about ghost stories.

Twister had a weakness in ghost stories. Where others would laugh at the thrill of being scared, he didn't find it so funny. It's just a story, people would tell him, there's no such thing as ghosts. He couldn't possibly explain to them, the knowing. Standing in a place, and knowing that someone died there. Pleasantly smiling while the faded afterimage of a car crash with a crushed child on a bicycle trapped between two vehicles was in the corner of his eye. A part of him wondered if those were ghosts. And if they were, didn't that mean that all those ghost stories were possible? So, how could they tell him not to be afraid, when it was more than possible for a ghost to haunt his house and slowly rearrange his insides as he slept, just for a little undead fun?

Or maybe Twister was just insane. He could never look directly at those images. They would always disappear. And he couldn't possibly _know _someone had died in those places, it was just a feeling. He never asked about it, just assumed that his gut instinct was right. Maybe it was his head playing tricks on him. His friends always did tell him he had a broken brain. Maybe they were right.

Taking a deep breath, Twister entered the kitchen. His parents immediately fell silent. He took his usual chair, a plate already at his setting. There was a pan of half-eaten scrambled eggs, a platter of cold bacon, the grease already starting to solidify, and a bowl of apple slices. Twister felt his stomach jolt in memory of his dream at seeing those slices. He saw flames licking up the sides of them, and his head blared with pounding pain. He grimaced, bringing a hand up to clutch the table. It was blinding. His heart quickened, beating against his chest, and he gasped slightly.

"¿Maurice, está tu bien?" Sandy questioned, looking concernedly to her son.

"I'm fine, mom," he managed to say in a quick breath. He looked away from the apples, tossing some eggs on his plate and knowing he couldn't even stomach the bacon. He poured some salsa over the eggs, stirring it up and spooning some in his mouth.

"Aliste para el día grande, Maurice? (Ready for the big day, Maurice?)" Raul asked, sipping at his coffee while Sandy busied herself clearing plates. Lars had left already, his school starting earlier in the morning than Twister's. He had to catch a bus, as well.

"Tu va a ser trece. Eso es un número grande (You're going to be thirteen. That's a big number)," Sandy put in, pouring a glass of orange juice for her son and setting it by his plate.

"Gracias, mom," he mumbled through a mouth full of eggs. There was a knock at the front door and he grinned, gulping down the glass of juice and leaping to his feet, "Gotta go. I'll be late for school, see 'ya, love 'ya, bye," he cried, racing from the room, grabbing his backpack, board and safety equipment and all but slamming the front door shut behind him. He rammed into a tall purple haired girl.

"Jeez, Twist, what's the rush?" she demanded haughtily and he blushed.

"Sorry, Reg, didn't see you there. Where's Otto?"

Reggie rolled her eyes, pointing to the half-pipe beside the Rocket house. Her younger brother, Otto, was tearing up the ramp with impressive moves. Sam, their other friend, was sitting on the sidewalk watching in awe, and looking slightly peeved. Twister smiled, plopping his helmet on his head and attempting to rush forward and join his good friend. Reggie held him back by his sleeve.

"No time," she moaned, "I've still gotta drag Otto off of there and get you guys to school."

"Reg," Twister pleaded, "Just one ride! Please?"

"You know, Twister," Reggie said authoritatively, "You're a teenager now, which means you need to demonstrate a level of maturity and responsibility." Twister let out a groan.

"My two least favorite words," he cried, then slyly, "In case you forgot, I don't turn thirteen until tomorrow. Until then, I can be as un-mature and un-responsible as I want!" With that said, he attempted to rush forward again, only to be pulled back once more. Reggie gave him a reproachful observatory glance.

"One last time," she clucked, releasing her hold on him and watching him scramble to the top of the ramp, shaking her head. She came to sit beside Sam, who smiled half-heartedly to her, flashing his

wristwatch.

"We're going to be late," he told her, flustered, "They always make us late. Why do we always wait for them?"

"Because," Reggie said sharply, "If someone doesn't drag those knuckleheads to class, they'll spend the entire day skating," then, looking upwards, "Let's go, guys!"

"One more run," Otto pleaded.

"Get off the ramp, now! We gotta go! Sam's getting antsy," Reggie shouted.

"I am not," Sam cried indignantly. Twister grinned, feeling his world spin as he flew into the air. He was suddenly caught with red, covering his eyes, blurring his vision. He beefed the move, tumbling along the ramp, and lying still on his belly. A chill had crept over his spine.

"_Somebody…_" a thousand voices were crying at once, "_Listen to me! See me! Somebody_…" He felt a warm hand touch his shoulder and jolted upright, head connecting with Otto's.

"Dude," Otto cried, "What's your malfunction? That hurt!"

"Sorry…"

"Are you okay, Twister?" Reggie asked, and Twister examined himself before nodding, "Good. Get off the ramp, let's go to school."

"Way to kick a guy when he's down, sis," Otto commented, extending a hand to help Twister to his feet. The boys descended from the ramp, plodding their skateboards to the sidewalk and tearing down the street towards their school.

Twister and Otto had hit middle school with a vengeance. Both on the brink of puberty, they were stuck between adolescence and childishness; often times demeaning themselves to underhanded antics, stirring up trouble, and clowning around in their classes. Twister held the record for most consecutive detentions, seventy-six and still going; and Otto had the longest known suspension in the history of OS Middle school; three weeks, two days, four hours, and twenty-three minutes. They were already well known, but they'd slipped into the background easily as nothing more than two lowly skater boys. They were beneath the basketball players and cheerleaders, at the bottom of the popularity scale. Which didn't bother either of them so long as they had their boards and somewhere to skate. They weren't geeks or nerds in the way Sam was classified, and they weren't really messed with by anyone like Sam. They were just, pretty much, left to do their own thing. Which usually involved goofing off.

Reggie was more at the top of the popularity chain. She was in journalism, in charge of the yearbook, a ninth grader, meaning she had seniority above all the underclassmen, and it really helped that she was pretty and athletic. Her good friend Sherry had convinced her to try-out for cheerleading, which she loathed. But she loved the attention she got when dressed in the mini skirt and tank top, dancing in front of a crowd of screaming students, pulling off difficult back flips and splits. She had more motivation to participate in the many clubs at school then her brother, who lost interest when he found out there was no skateboarding club at the middle school, nor was there a school street hockey team, nor a surf club, and while there was an in-line skating club, the members were all lame-o's in his opinion, who had decided they were above doing tricks and shredding the Madtown blader bowl, simply secluding themselves to speed skating. To Twister's delight there was a Street Luge club, but he went to one meeting and discovered, they were losers, most of whom had never even done any luging. They just liked reading the magazines and watching the competitions. Those who had done luge before, weren't very good at it and weren't interested in trying it again. When he'd told them how much he'd loved it and about the many trophies he'd won in competitions they began to idolize him and it got a little too creepy. Sam had joined a few computer clubs, the science club, a sci-fi fan club, and was in journalism with Reggie. Though he never gained the esteemed popularity she had, often times finding himself shoved in his own locker, he did usually hang around the popular crowd.

As for classes, Reggie and Sam were the straight A honor students they'd always been. But Otto and Twister hardly ever did their homework. What's the point, was Twister's reasoning, the teacher will only assign more tomorrow.

Twister settled into his first period class, which he shared with Otto. They watched as Reggie and Sam split down separate directions in the hall.

"I hate English," Twister whispered his dreadlocked friend, who simply nodded. It was tradition that Twister curse aloud every class he had with his best friend before the bell rang, the only classes he didn't have with Otto were Art and Spanish; which also happened to be the only two classes he wasn't failing and his favorite, meaning he didn't feel a need to curse them.

Their teacher, Miss Hackler, strode in with her usual stream of perfume trailing behind, as the final bell rang. She'd had the good reasoning to set Twister and Otto at the front of the class on opposite ends of the room in the beginning of the year. Only to find out that they weren't above shouting conversations across the room to one another at any point during the period. To save time, and distractions, she moved them closer to each other and begged that they attempt writing notes, a perfectly acceptable form of communication in Miss Hackler's class, instead of chatting loudly. They hardly ever took her up on that suggestion as Otto was horrible at putting word together on paper, and Twister's handwriting was illegible

"Alright, class, did you all do your reading assignments last night?" she asked, looking expectantly about the room as though waiting for an answer, "What did you all think of that story?"

"_Piece of crap. I've read better prose on the back of a toilet paper package_," a voice hissed in Twister's ear. He flinched, glancing around to see who'd spoken. But all eyes were obediently on the teacher.

"Viola, why don't you share your opinion," Miss Hackler said. Twister eyed the bulky, freckle-faced brunette disgustedly as she shoved her glasses up on her nose slightly, and sniffed loudly.

"I thought it was wonderful," she announced, gaining a beam of approval from Miss Hackler, "The story was so intriguing. It was just…thrilling."

"_What a suck up!_" someone else commented harshly, sounding very much like an older boy shouting from the back of the room, and Twister turned, but found no owner to the mysterious voice.

"_Viola, Viola, pretty in pink! Viola, Viola, oink, oink she will speak…Viola, Viola, such a P-I-and-G…_," a loud pugnacious voice sang loudly. It sounded like a girl. Twister's eyes bugged out, and he sniggered, but no one else seemed to notice the singing. He even received an indignant stare from Miss Hackler and Viola, and a queried glance from Otto.

"Go on, Viola," Miss Hackler prodded, turning her attention from Twister.

"I especially liked the ending. It all seemed to even out. And the symbolism behind the last apple on the tree," Viola continued.

"_Brown noser!_" the boy booed from across the room, "_Stuff an apple in her mouth and cook her on a spit!_"

"_I did the pig bit, already_," the girl whined, "_Come up with your own stuff!_"

"You're so insightful, Viola," Miss Hackler praised, shooting Twister a dangerous glower as he shifted restlessly in his chair.

"_Miss Hackler is such a hack_," the first voice murmured, and Twister distinctly felt the cold of a person's breath against his ear. He shuddered, thinking it sounded very much like an embittered old man.

"Mister Rodriguez," Miss Hackler boomed, and Twister straightened, "Why don't you tell us what you thought of the reading?"

"_Oh, this oughta be deep_," the old man whispered sarcastically, "_Deep as a wading pool, that is!_"

"Hey!" Twister snapped, glancing around at his very confused peers for the insulting party. Finding no one, he slumped back in his chair, "Um…what was it we read, again…?"

"_He's a goner,_" the girl clucked.

"_STRIKE ONE!_" the boy shouted.

"Did you even do the reading assignment, Mister Rodriguez?" Miss Hackler drawled, even as she already knew the answer.

"I forgot…" Twister mumbled, sinking low in his chair and turning bright red as a few people laughed behind his back, jeeringly encouraging the teacher as she wasn't picking on them.

"_Oooh…SWING AND A MISS…STRIKE TWO!_"

"_Ha, ha, ha…if he were cleverer, he'd just repeat what Miss Piggy said,_" the girl snickered.

"_If he were cleverer, he'd of done the reading,_" the old man commented bitingly.

"You forgot?" Miss Hackler pressed, "You do a lot of forgetting, Mister Rodriguez. Maybe I should call your mother, and ask her to up your ginkgo biloba dosage."

"My what?" Twister scrunched his nose, "Is that a kind of…slug?"

"_WHOA! FOUL BALL…outta the park, that one…_"

"_Wow…I've seen smarter license plates…_" Twister sank, lowering his head, feeling the heat of embarrassment flushing his face.

"_I almost feel bad, now…mocking the mentally challenged._"

"Hey, shut up!" Twister cried, receiving a stern and surprised glance from Miss Hackler and the class broke into awkwardly confused laughter. Was he actually yelling at the teacher?

"Excuse me, young man," Miss Hackler cleared her throat, "I think you better go to the principle's office."

"Not again," Twister moaned, "I'm sorry…it's just…somebody keeps…" he fell silent. How could he explain what he was hearing? No one else seemed to even notice. He stood, sighing heavily, "Where's my hall pass?"

"Let me write one up," Miss Hackler told him, making way to her desk and returning shortly with a white piece of paper. Twister accepted the pass, and walked to the door, he briefly looked back to Otto who watched his retreating form with worry. Twister had done some pretty goofy things in the past, and it's not to say he didn't always deserve to be sent up to the office, but telling a teacher to 'shut up' was a surprise, and a little out of Twister's delinquency league. Otto could already surmise, something was wrong with his friend.

Twister sighed, clutching his hall pass and reading over it. For disrupting class, it said in long spindly blue ink. He wasn't bothered that he had to go to the principle's office, though somewhat disappointed in himself. He hadn't even lasted first period. What bothered him was those voices. Those voices that morning, and the voices in the class. They couldn't be a coincidence, could they? Were they connected with the dream, he wondered.

"Hey, Twister," he heard a familiar voice say. He startled from his thoughts, and smiled broadly to the blonde boy.

"Sam," he greeted, "Where are you going?" Sam flashed his pass.

"Errand for Mr. Stigler," he answered, "You?"

"Office."

"_Already_?"

Twister shrugged, folding the paper and stuffing it in his pocket. He grinned, walking backwards away from Sam down the hall and waving.

"Where are you going? The office is that way…" Sam stammered.

"Point being…? Miss Hackler's not going to check up on me," Twister retorted, "Later much, Squid."

"You're going to get in trouble," Sam called after him, "Twister…" He glanced over his shoulder, before shoving his own pass in his pocket and scrambling after the taller boy. "Where are we going?" he hissed.

"We?" Twister repeated, narrowing his eyes at the blonde, "_I'm_ going down this hall. You're running errands. Go on, errand boy."

"Twister," Sam cried, "_Where_ are you going?"

"The library."

"Liar."

"The bathroom?"

"Twister, even _you _can come up with better than that!"

"I don't know, alright. I'll know when I get there," Twister said, pausing. Cold shivers ran up his spine and there seemed a dampening in the air. His stomach turned with nausea, and he could hear his heart pounding. With stiff, concise movements, he walked to the window, gasping and faltering back.

The body of a young boy lay tangled in the bushes outside. The legs were akimbo, the arm jutting at the elbow, pure white poking from dark brown flesh. The head was bent at an unnatural angle and the eyes were wide open, rolled up, looking towards the sky as though he were praying. They were glossed over, dimmed, as if a light inside the boy had diminished in much the same fashion as a jack-a-lantern with the candle blown out. He had a golden angel pendant around his neck, and the chain had caught in a branch of the bush. It was stretched taut against his neck, biting into the skin and splitting it ever so slightly. There was a blackened drop of blood on the angel. The boy's mouth was open, and the swollen tongue lolled out.

"Twist…" Twister startled. He hadn't even realized Sam had been calling his name. He would blink, closing his eyes tightly and willing the image to disappear. But then he would reopen his eyes, and there it would lie.

"Do you…do you…?" Twister stammered, looking to Sam who was peering out the window curiously, wondering what the other boy was gaping at. It was obvious, Sam didn't see it.

"Do I what?" Sam inquired, glancing up concernedly. He received no answer. "Twister, are you okay?"

"Fine…" Twister murmured, still staring at the broken form, "I…I…I have to go to the bathroom." He struggled to peel his eyes from the ghastly image, jogging down the hall. Sam shrugged, watching the retreating boy enter the restrooms, before remembering his own task and hustling away to continue his business.

Twister threw up. It seemed the only rational thing to do at the moment. That and his stomach _had _been bothering him all morning. He flushed the toilet, before leaning his head against the mirror above a sink. He was covered in a fine layer of sweat again. He rinsed his mouth out, wishing he hadn't eaten those eggs for breakfast, and cleaned his face, finding the ice cold less refreshing then he'd hoped.

"What is wrong with me?" he demanded of the running water. He saw things like that all the time, but never directly. It was always from the corner of his eye, brief, and less vivid; a flash, almost, a post-cognitive vision. He'd ignore them, hocking them up to nothing more than figments of his imagination. But he could make out every detail of that dead boy outside. Every little droplet of blood, every little crinkle in the clothes, every cut in the flesh. And he could _feel_ it. Not a small, intuitive, gut feeling; but rather, an overpowering, overwhelming, gut _wrenching _feeling. He could almost picture the boy flailing from the top of the school roof to the ground below. Could almost hear the whistle of the wind as it rushed by the boy's face, the blood curdling scream. That boy had died there at some time past. Twister shuddered. Alas, for that knowing.

And those voices. Voices without bodies. Hearing voices, isn't that a sign of insanity, Twister thought in panic. He'd never heard voices before. They couldn't be…not possibly…ghosts? There was a lurching in Twister's stomach, and he cringed, tasting bile in the back of his throat. He needed to lay down, needed to cool off. He felt as though he were in a sauna, the heat was immense. His throat was dry, and he slumped to the tile floor. The bell rang for second period. He wasn't going to make it to his next class. He could tell that much already. He wondered if he was even going to be well enough for the campout that night. But he had to go. He couldn't exactly tell his friends he was seeing and hearing things that nobody else was, could he?

* * *

END A/N: What could it all mean? Mysterious voices and dead images? Poor Twister...I love him, I really do...I just love torturing him more. Maybe I have a Lars' complex...maybe I just find vulnerable (and often times bandaged and bloody) guys sexy (and yes, that may just be a hint of things to come). HAHAHAHAHA! Maybe I'm jsut a sadist.

Let's recap what we discovered in this chapter: It's revealed that Twister's always had a little offish perception of the world. He could see things, but only from the corner of his eye (not looking directly at it), that others couldn't. Pretty gruesome things. And he could sometimes tell if, inthe place he was at, somebody hadever died there It's just a foreboding feeling he has. Now, his insight is apparently getting a little stronger. Or is he just going crazy? Also, Sandyseems a little worried about him hearing ghost stories and camping out at night. Is it just her mothering or is there more of a reason behind it?

The world may never know. Until I update, that is.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. But, you know, I'd rest easier at night if you all **_REVIEW_**ed and told me that you enjoyed it...or not, whichever you decide.

Now, please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. YAY! I don't have to work tomorrow..or...it's today, now. I have three days off in a row! Bet you guys can guess what I'll be spending most of those three days doing! Well, one of those days I have to go deal with my class stuff...but anyhoo...the rest of the time I'll mostly be making your wishes and hopes and lustful dreams come true...er...or just updating my fanfics. That could've gotten weirder if I continued on that same path, huh?

Next on my to-do list: The Legend of Bandit chapter 2; A Dim Light in the Dark chapter 4! And maybe Killing the Daisies, skip ahead to end of chapter 10...I need motivation!

Er...THANKS FOR READING (especially if you read that whole A/N, now that's dedication...)

This story is also slightly inspired by: Yami no Matsuei (Descendants of Darkness for you dubbies...) as of yet, non-shonen ai graphic novel...though I would love a tsuzuki/hisoka pairing...erm...sorry..., The Demon Ororon (non-shonen ai graphic novel, and let's keep it that way), Tithe book by Holly Black, and OH, OH, Lumen Lunae (definite shonen-ai, and hot stuff! You want gruesome...)

Anyways...an ending note: All dressed down and no place to slack. _I don't cry when my dog runs away, I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay, I did get angry when my mom smokes pot, hits the bottle and goes right to the rock...fuckin' and fightin', it's all the same..._

I have a co-worker who will listen to KISS and listen to Rolling Stones; but won't listen to Sublime because of the drug reference in the song, "I smoke two joints in the morning, I smoke two joints at night...I smoke two joints in the afternoon, it makes me feel alright..." He looked confused when I told him he was an idiot. Just a little tidbit. I'm sorry, I'M GONE! I talk too much, and surprisingly, little at all. I seriously need a blog.


	3. Contar Historias Del Fantasma

A/N: Yay! Chapter 2! Whew...

Thanks to the reviewers:

PrinceIzzy1: I guess I shouldn't talk...I mean, I haven't read/reviewed any of your stories that I know of. You say it as thought comedy can't be between gore...and yeah, I guess I am good with gore. Descriptions are my thing. This is going to be kind of like...um...Buffy the Vampire Slayer series when it comes to comedy. Some parts will be pretty serious (with subtle comedy thrown in) and some will just be pure fun.

TheAngelofAnarchy: Yeah, it's gonna get _really_ gruesome. Blood, guts, and groping. Did I say groping? Spoiling _too_ much. Sorry. Now, where did you go to school that this story reminds you of the place? Innercity public school? Was there a hint in there? I think I may have missed it...sorry.

peachy15: I'm going to try and make this an equal balance between creepy (though I have a high tolerance for creepiness...my...uh...rating system is a little off), humorous, and cute. Lot's of cute scenes...well, maybe not _too_ many. But when Twister is involved, how can the story _not _be cute?

SpiceofLife: Yeah, that was a hint. But I guess I can understand writer's block, I've got a huge one when it comes to my Recess fics. Which is seriously pissing me off!

Sk8er Chica: Yup, they are trouble makers. I like to stress that in my stories. Hope this chapter gives you a little more insight on Twist's predicament.

goofymonkeychild: Random subjects, I can babble! Um, a blog is a web diary or something like that. I think they're kind of lame, no offense to those who have them! Diego Rivera was Frida's husband, and they both had multiple affairs. Frida with both men and women. Diego cheated on her once with one of her sisters, and she took him back! Now that's love. They were artists though, so it's pretty much to be expected.

mike2000: I don't recall recieving a review from you before either. Neato! I'm glad you like my story and I guess I did forget to put my disclaimer. The, "I have no hispanic heritage that I know of whatsoever, nor do I speak any Spanish despite my two years of classes in which all I retained was: hola, como estas, donde esta bano, callete la boca, Dona Sebastiana, gringo/gringolandia, and the knowledge that the Spanish word for eggs is also slang in some latin countries for male genetelia, so do not under any means assume that the Spanish phrases I useare correct in any way, shape or form, and I apologize in advance for horribly brutilizing a very beautiful language but the Spanish is imperitive to the story" disclaimer. I'm thankful for your suggestions, and the truth is, I would love to be able to put the proper way it would be written. I did have someone offer to help me, but to be honest, I don't know how I would get the sentences translated (though, I guess I could send what I want translated and they could send the translations back) and I really don't want to bother someone for my story. And your comment about Diego Rivera, ("I'm glad to know his work is known beyond our borders") is a bit ignorant of you to say (no offense). Just by saying that is kind of...how should I put this...it kind of belittles the fact that Diego is a _world_ renowned artist, much like his wife, Frida. Maybe it's because I'm an art major that I know more about the artist then most, but I do know that he is recognized as a great artist throughout the world. Please acknowledge this fact and don't trivialize his importance and influence in art. Art is, after all, a universal thing that is not bound by culture, politics, race, or any other system of classification you can come up with.

OKAY! Whew.

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 2: Contar Historias Del Fantasma (Telling Ghost Stories)

Twister loaded his bag in the back of the Rockets' woody wagon, smiling at Reggie as she put hers in. Otto was still in the house helping his father get the tent and everything together, and Sam was on his way from his house across the street with his things.

"I can't believe by this time tomorrow you're going to be thirteen," Reggie commented. Twister shrugged.

"Yup, I can't believe I made it," he replied. Sam came between them, throwing his sleeping bag and knapsack into the trunk.

"Especially with all the stupid things you do," he muttered, and Twister narrowed his eyes at the shorter boy.

"What was that? Respect your elders!" Twister snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning broadly, "I am older than you now, after all."

"You've _always_ been older than me, Twister," Sam sighed, "Whereas, I've always been smarter, more mature, wiser…" he walked off, still listing the different areas he was stronger in. Twister shook his head, leaning against the back of the car and sighing. He pushed his hat back on his head, running a hand over his sweat drenched forehead and taking a deep breath. He nearly gagged on the 'fresh' air. It was filled with the stench of death.

"You okay?" Reggie asked, concern subtly etched in the edge of her voice, lest he suspect how truly worried she was about him. He had looked pale since they walked home from school earlier that day, and those bags under his eyes were not incredibly conspicuous. Otto had also informed her that he'd failed to show up for the rest of their classes, and Sam explained that Twister never went up to the Principle's office, where he'd been sent after a brief stint in his first class of the day. Facts that upset her, but also concerned her.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Twister piped, though his tone was haggard, "Why?"

"Twister, if something is…" Reggie began softly, when Otto and Ray stepped between the two, shoving the tent into the trunk. She fell silent, lowering her eyes, and Twister smiled to his best friend.

"Are we ready to go, _yet_?" he demanded with all the impatience of a five year old child. Ray swung the trunk door shut, flipping Twister's hat over the boy's eyes and patting Reggie's shoulder before heading to the driver side door.

"Load up, kids," Ray called, "Let's hit the road." With no need for further prodding, Reggie took the front seat, and Twister, Otto, and Sam slid into the back. Ray pulled out of the driveway, and they headed down the road, the kids eagerly chatting in the car.

"I downloaded a bunch of ghost stories for this trip," Sam was saying excitedly, "And I bought a bunch of Scary Stories books."

"Cool," Otto exclaimed, then grinning slyly, "So long as you don't chicken out and decide you don't want to hear any scary stories."

"I w-w-w-will not," Sam stammered, indignantly pushing his glasses up on his nose.

"Yeah, we'll see. When we're gathered around that camp fire in the dead of night…nothing but the sound of the fire cracking and the owls hooting and…" Otto pressed, his words shaky and eerie.

"Do we…um…do we really have to tell ghost stories?" Twister whispered, his voice so low he thought for a moment the others hadn't heard. Reggie grinned, teasingly pinching his cheek.

"Aww…is the wittle Twister scared?" she joked. Twister pulled away, scowling at her.

"No wa-" he began, but his words caught as a dark shiver gripped his heart. They past the ghastly scene of an upturned car.

Twister leaned against the window, watching the image roll by. It was a convertible, a nice cherry red, nowhere near as deeply set as the puddle of crimson seeping from under the car, splattered heavily against the beige leather. A middle-aged man, the driver, had his head crushed under the car. His skull was obviously shattered under the pressure of the vehicle, and one of his eyes was bulging out. He was smiling, blood gushing from his mouth, his once perfect white teeth coated with the red. Twister jolted when Otto's body suddenly slammed against his.

"Dude, stop shoving," Otto cried.

"You pushed me first," Reggie shot back.

"Will you two settle down?" Ray roared, "We still have half-an-hour to go. This is Twister's birthday, do you really want me to turn this car around and disappoint him?"

"Sorry, dad," the two murmured, both falling silent. Twister frowned, pressing his head against the cool window. He wasn't sure he'd really be disappointed if Ray did turn the car around and head home. In fact, he was fairly certain he'd be somewhat happy, even relieved.

"You're like practically an adult now, Twister," Otto said, and the other boy straightened at his name, "Thirteen. You're a teen now, that's so cool. You can be a complete dip wad, and your parents will blame it all on the fact you're 'at that age'. Hey, dad, when I turn thirteen can we go to Australia? I can catch a sixty foot wave! The swells are way gnarly out there!"

"I don't know if we could afford that kind of trip, Otto, maybe for the summer," Ray keenly replied, "And I wouldn't recommend you be any kind of dip wad to your parents, Twister, no matter how much teen angst is bumming you out."

"_This way, that way…they all go the same way…" _a brittle voice brushed against Twister's ear, and a chill ran down his spine, "_Damn signs. All roads…all end up in the same place anyways…_"

"Um…Raymundo," Twister spoke up, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What's on your mind?"

"Um…" Twister licked his lips, dried and chapped, wanting to ask that they turn around despite how unfair and ungrateful it would seem. Wanting to ask if anyone else had heard the voice even as he knew no one had. Wanting to say he was sick and didn't feel well and just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, sleep, and never wake up. He caught the looks of his friends, bright and gleaming with fervor. They'd been waiting a long time for this trip. "Never mind," Twister mumbled, slumping back in his seat and toying with the belt buckle.

"Are you okay, Twist?" Otto asked, receiving a solemn expression from his best friend.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Twister mumbled shallowly. Even he didn't believe his own words.

Ray pulled the car into the lodge parking lot. It was fairly empty, a little too early for the spring and summer crowds. He put the car into park, and told the kids to wait as he went to talk to the wood rangers. He left them, the car running, the radio playing some old band and the air conditioner humming.

"It was…um…really cool of Raymundo to take us up here," Twister finally said, "Your dad's awesome…my parents didn't even want me to go."

"They didn't? I thought they were totally cool with Raymundo watching us up here," Reggie sputtered, "Why didn't they want you to come?"

"I don't know," Twister shrugged, "My parents just aren't as cool as your dad."

"Your parents are pretty cool," Sam reminded him, "They always bust on Lars for mistreating you."

"I guess," Twister conceded, "But still…they aren't as cool as Raymundo."

"You got that right," Otto grinned, "No one's as cool as Raymundo."

"Except when he busts you, huh, Otto?" Reggie pointed out, and Otto frowned.

"My mom's been babying me too much, it's getting on my nerves," Twister finally said, "She's all like 'He's too young, camping in the mountains, he'll get scared'. I'm not a baby!"

"Sounds like my mom," Sam laughed, then in a mock high-pitched voice, "Don't forget the bug spray, your allergy medicine, your sweater, a change of underwear…" he blushed, "I mean..." The others broke into laughter.

"You'll need it tonight, when we tell all those scary stories," Otto teased, sitting back when Ray reentered the car.

"Okay, kids, we'll drive up a little ways, to the campgrounds, and walk from there," Ray told them,

"You okay, Twister, you don't look so good?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Twister demanded, "_I'm fine!_"

"Sheesh, I was just asking," Ray muttered, pulling back out on the road.

They each took their own packs, strapping them to their backs. Ray and Otto carried the tent and Twister and Reggie wrestled with the cooler. Sam trailed behind with a few of the extra bags. They trekked up the mountain side singing joyfully old camp songs. Twister quietly studying their surroundings. He felt relieved, to a degree. The air wasn't quite so nauseating. He felt the ebb of death around, but it was more natural, casual. And, no voices. Just the cheerful chirrup of different animals.

"It shouldn't be much further," Ray announced happily, "It's the perfect clearing. Tito and I used to come up here all the time back in the day. We'd sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows, sing good old campfire songs, and tell back-tingling ghost stories."

The kids beamed up at Ray, listening happily, but Twister concentrated on the cooler in his hands. Something didn't feel right. The air seemed to get thick, dark, musty and stale. Something lingered in the area. He knew, without a doubt, someone had died there.

"_Help! Help me! Somebody hear me…somebody listen…_" it sounded childish, like a young boy; a desperate whine. Twister felt overwhelmed with its sadness and misery, and something else deep within. A pain shot over his eyes and he cried out, dropping the cooler and Reggie was jerked down with the weight. The others stopped, turning to look at Twister expectantly.

"Jeez, Twist, give a little warning next time," Reggie cried, letting the cooler fall from her own hands and massaging her back. Twister rubbed his forehead, wincing.

"Sorry, Reg," he mumbled, "A…uh…a bug…yeah, that's it…a bug must have flown in my eye or something…"

"Or something," Otto remarked to Sam.

"_Please help_," the voice persisted, "_Is anyone out there? Can someone please…please…please hear me?_"

"It's alright," Ray said, setting down his own burden, "This is where we want to be." Twister felt his stomach turn.

"Are you sure?" he prodded, "Not a little further up? Or maybe a little ways down? Anywhere else? There must be a nicer clearing? Look at all the trees here, and those sticks on the ground…are you absolutely, positively sure that this is where we want to stop?"

"I'm certain," Ray told him, "This is the spot." He crossed over to a large tree trunk, placing his hand tenderly there. The flesh of the wood was cut deep with old scars. A heart, with two initials had been carved there, "Look at this, Reggie, Otto. Your mother and I carved this here a long time ago," he told them solemnly. Reggie came to trace the letters, a sadness creeping over her eyes. Otto was silent. Twister and Sam lowered their heads out of respect, knowing it was a Rocket family moment.

Reggie and Otto's mother had passed away when they were young. The two siblings had barely had the time to get to know the woman who'd given birth to them, but they missed her and thought of her often all the same.

"_Listen to me! I'm here! I just want to be heard!_" the voice cried, and it sounded like a roar in Twister's ears. A torrent of emotions suddenly flooded his mind; rage, frustration, sadness, bitterness, anger, misery. They seemed foreign to him, as though they radiated from an outside force, but they raced through his veins as though his own He grasped his head, drenched in sweat, and all but collapsed to the forest floor, legs giving out beneath him, his hand pressed into the soil, as he attempted to balance himself in a half-sitting position.

"Twister?" the others were calling, Otto shaking the boy's shoulders fervently, "Twister? Twister, are you okay?"

"Fine," he managed to gasp, "Just…I'm just fine!" He pushed Otto away, "I just wish everyone would stop asking me that!" He pulled himself up, ignoring the wooziness he felt and studying the woodland floor. Otto stood back a bit dejectedly, and the others stared blankly at Twister. He knew he needed to say something, "Sorry. I'm okay…I just thought I saw…a…um…a rabid mutant flying squirrel?"

"A rabid mutant flying squirrel," the others repeated skeptically, staring at him with raised eyebrows.

"Um…yeah…it was huge, and gray, and brownish, with scary beady red eyes and…" Twister began, his eyes wide, his hands flung out in wild gestures, "It flew right by Reggie's head and I…"

"_O_kay, kids," Ray clapped his hands together, "Let's break out the tent and get camp set up!"

"But what about the rabid mutant flying squirrel?" Sam demanded, his voice quavering. Reggie rolled her eyes and Otto snickered. Twister sighed, rubbing his head. He knew he should say something, tell them he wasn't feeling well at least, but he couldn't.

Ray pulled the tent out, staring blank-faced at the instructions. Reggie shoved the cooler to the side, and the others dropped their packs. The boys moved to clear the area of debris, and Sam flipped the cooler open, searching for a drink.

"Rabid mutant flying squirrel," Otto restated in a low voice to Twister, "That's the best you could come up with?"

"You don't believe me?" Twister cried, obviously hurt.

"Twist, what's up with you? You've been acting weird all day," Otto questioned, "That beef this morning on the half-pipe, yelling at Miss Hackler; which I might add _was _kind of funny but _really _stupid, ditching the rest of classes…"

"Are you worried about me, Otto?" Twister inquired teasingly. Otto frowned, rolling his eyes. He kicked at a twig on the ground.

"I'm just saying," Otto muttered, "You're acting weirder than usual." They were silent. Twister fiddled with his shirt, tugging it down. He thought for a moment maybe he could tell Otto what was going on. They were best friends after all. Otto would understand, right? _Sure_, Twister thought, _I'll just tell him I'm seeing things, hearing voices, and having hot and cold flashes_. He took a deep breath, grinning slightly and telling himself, _yeah, he'll only think I've completely lost it and maybe have me committed_.

"I've just been real excited about this trip is all," Twister lied, "Camping with my best bros. Connecting with the forest and trees and dirt and fresh air and animals and maybe not the dirt so much, my mom'll wig…" Otto shook his head, joining his father.

"This shouldn't take long at all, Rocket boy," Ray told his son, trying unsuccessfully to connect two metal poles, "Why don't you guys go find some wood for the fire?"

"Sure thing, dad," Otto eagerly agreed, wanting to explore more of the forest area. He turned to the others, "Let's go guys."

"Don't go far, kids," Ray called to them, scratching his head and turning over the different parts, flipping the instructions upside down in an attempt to better understand them.

The gang trekked a ways up the mountain, splitting up in the small clearing to gather fairly large, dry pieces of wood. Otto caught his sister's eyes, a mischievous smile on his face. Reggie grinned, easily catching on.

"Hey, Otto, you think this is the place?" Reggie asked casually, arms filled with sticks.

"What place?" Sam inquired, throwing a twig back down and pushing his glasses up on his nose. He peered out at the Rocket siblings with interest. Twister glanced up as well.

"Raymundo told us about this crazy man that escaped to this mountain several years back from the state pen," Otto explained.

"Yeah," Reggie smiled slyly, slipping an arm over Twister's shoulders, "There was a group of campers in the woods that night. They didn't know about the crazy man, and they set up camp in a small clearing, much like this one. I believe it was a group of kids, mostly, around our age. Completely unaware of the danger they were in..."

"I don't want to hear anymore," Twister whimpered, pulling away and wrapping his arms around himself.

"It was a real pity," Otto clucked, suppressing his sniggers, "When they found them…"

"You mean when they found what was left of them," Reggie interrupted. Twister shivered and Sam gulped.

"They're just trying to scare us, Twist," he muttered unconvincingly.

"Sure, whatever," Otto grinned, shrugging and patting Sam's shoulder, "I'd watch my back though. They never did find that crazy guy…"

"Though," Reggie smirked, "Every now and then, a camper does end up missing in these mountains."

"Do they…do they ever find them…?" Twister stuttered, wide-eyed and trembling.

"Oh they turn up, eventually," Reggie said.

"Piece by piece," Otto grinned.

"Stop it!" Twister moaned, the unsettling weight of death resting about him. It wouldn't be long before he would start seeing dismembered limbs and brutalized corpses lying about, that much he was certain of. Sam pulled his glasses off, cleaning them indignantly.

"I, for one, don't really see the humor in this obviously false story," he stammered. The Rockets exchanged solemn glances, shaking their heads.

"It's too bad they don't believe us, bro," Reggie cooed, heading back to the campsite. Otto shrugged, patting Twister's shoulder and following his sister.

"If you're not here tomorrow morning," he called over his shoulder, "We'll extend your love and good-byes to your families."

"That's real cute, guys," Sam spat, following them as well. Twister glanced about warily, chewing his lower lip and sniffling. Something didn't feel right about that area of the woods. Something unnatural was hanging in the air, something dark.

-0-0-

Sam raised the flashlight to his face, staring out at the others, his pale skin an eerie yellow glow. Otto and Twister sat huddled on the dusty ground, and Reggie was pressed against her father on a log. The fire roared in front of them, small and manageable, meager orange and red light adding to the spooky atmosphere.

"…and when the man came back the next day, he found that she was already dead," Sam finished, "The end." The others shuddered, and Twister squirmed slightly.

"That was really good, Sammy," Reggie commented, "I think you really got Twister and Otto. They look so scared. Are the little kiddies frightened…"

"Reggie, you can let go of my arm now," Ray grimaced, indicating where his daughter's fingers were biting into his flesh. She chuckled meekly, releasing her grip.

"Bust!" Otto cried, before yawning loudly. They had sat around the campfire until late into the night taking turns telling ghost stories. Reggie and Sam had told the best, and Twister simply skipped his turn. Which annoyed Otto somewhat, "You're up, Twist. You have to tell at least one ghost story."

"I don't want to, Otto," Twister whined, "Can't we just go to bed. I'm tired…"

"Oh, come on, Twister, it's fun," Reggie pleaded, "We've all told our stories."

"And we promise not to laugh if it's really lame," Otto put in, receiving a stern look from his father and friends. Twister groaned, rolling his eyes and silently accepting the flashlight. He turned it off and on a few times, thoughtfully.

"Have I ever told you guys about Doña Sebastiana?" he questioned aloud somewhat to himself.

"Don what?" Otto mumbled, "Nope, never heard of him."

"_Doña _Sebastiana," Twister corrected almost resentfully

"I think I've heard of that," Sam said, deep in concentration, "Isn't that the Mexican equivalent to the Grim Reaper."

"No way, dude!" Twister snapped.

"But it's a skeleton right, comes and tells people it's time to die," Sam insisted.

"Do you want me to tell a story or not?" Twister hissed, and Sam fell silent, "Thank you. Now…um…" Twister stared at the flashlight in his hands, trying to sort out the story in his mind. He only knew so many ghost stories, "Once there was this little boy, Arturo,…who…uh…lived in the Mexico countryside."

Otto slumped, holding his chin in the palm of his hand, Sam leaned back on the log and Reggie tried to stifle a yawn. Ray sat smiling, trying to appear encouraging, but he didn't expect much from the youth. Twister settled into his story, fidgeting with the flashlight.

"Now this boy, Arturo, was really poor. His father was a farmer, and his mother was dead. His grandmother was in charge of watching him, and she was a really strict and sometimes mean person. He had to work really hard everyday and was always hungry and tired. One day he was walking through the woods on an errand for his grandmother," Twister continued, oblivious to the others' restlessness, "He heard a sound and got really scared. At first he didn't know what it was, so he kept walking, but the sound got closer and closer. He heard a slight growling, and realized that it was probably some sort of wild animal, a coyote. Being really scared, he ran and ran and ran until he couldn't run anymore. But whatever was following him was still close behind. Suddenly he found that he was on the dirt road, and out of the woods, he had run really far. But the coyote was still following him.

"That's when he heard the creaking of a cart. He thought, 'I'm saved!' But he saw no one. The coyote was still there, and the cart sounded like it was getting closer. But still he saw nothing! So he called out, '¿Quién está allí?'…er…I mean, 'who's that?' That's when the cart came forward, an old rickety thing. Sitting at the top was Doña Sebastiana. She was dressed in her usual feather boa, a big ol' hat, and a pretty dress. She had a long bow in her hand, and looked very beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Otto questioned incredulously, "I thought this thing was a skeleton!"

"Shut up, Otto, let him tell the story," Reggie growled.

"Yeah," Twister snapped, then looking around as though expecting another interruption, he resumed, "_She_ was very _beautiful_. She looked to Arturo, who looked very scared. She said to him, 'Porqué sea tú asustó, el pequeño'…augh! I mean, oh man…_she asked him_, 'Why are you afraid, little dude'…and he told her, 'because a coyote is following me'. Lady Muerte understood and told him, 'quickly get in my cart'. So he did…"

"Whoa, wait," Sam interrupted, "I thought Doña Sebastiana was…like…the Grim Reaper, er, death, I mean. Why is she helping the kid? Isn't she there to…"

"Who's telling this story?" Twister cried.

"You," Sam muttered, "Which explains a lot, so why do I even bother…"

"You know what, I don't have to tell this story," Twister said in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest, "If you can't stay quiet and let me talk, then I'm not finishing it."

"_I want to hear the end…_" a tiny voice whispered in Twister's ear, and he felt his heart skip a beat. It was the little boy's voice he'd heard earlier, "_I like it._"

"Can I continue?" Twister pressed, looking around at the others. Ray lifted his hat to rub his forehead and the other kids reluctantly nodded, "No more talking. Okay…where was I…um…So Arturo got into Doña Sebastiana's cart and she rolled away really fast and took him home. There he said, 'how can I thank you?' Doña Sebastiana was thoughtful a moment before saying, 'I am really hungry.' So Arturo searched himself and found only his lunch, a small piece of cheese, 'it's all I have,' he told her, and gave it to her. She accepted it graciously and ate, thanking him. Then she left. Arturo told his grandmother what happened, and she did not believe him. But she didn't tell him she didn't believe him. She decided to joke with him, saying, 'A smelly piece of cheese is no way to thank the Lady Muerte. Next time you see her, invite her over for dinner so that we may feed her properly.' Arturo did not think he would see Doña Sebastiana again, but he agreed anyways.

"A couple days later, Arturo was walking down the road and came across a cart that's wheel had broke off. It was Doña Sebastiana's cart! She said to Arturo, 'I know your debt is already repaid to me, but I wonder if you would help me repair my cart'. Arturo, being a good guy, said he would. So he fixed the wheel and Doña Sebastiana said to him, 'What can I do in return?' Arturo told her, 'There is really nothing I want', because there really wasn't. Sure, his life wasn't that great, but it wasn't really horrible either. Doña Sebastiana said, 'Well, I can't let you go with nothing', so she reached into her dress and brought out a…um…an apple. She told him, 'this is a very special apple. If someone should eat it before they are about to die, then they will live'. Arturo thanked her and put the apple away. Before she left he remembered what his grandmother said and invited her to dinner. Doña Sebastiana accepted.

"When Arturo came home and told his grandmother what had happened, she thought it was a joke, but went with him all the same. She didn't bother preparing much food for that night, not even expecting Doña Sebastiana to show up. So when there came a knock at the door and the grandmother opened it, she was surprised to find the Lady Muerte in all her fancy things standing in the doorway. 'I'm here for dinner,' she said. The grandmother was so shocked her heart started pounding madly, and she clutched her chest. She couldn't' breathe. She was going to die of...a...um...a heartattack. Doña Sebastiana looked to Arturo, who looked very shocked, and said, 'It is this woman's time, but I will give you a chance to use the apple'. Arturo shook his head saying, 'She's old. If it is her time, then its her time, I will not use the apple'. Doña Sebastiana accepted his reason, seeing it to be a very wise one. So Arturo ran to get his father, and Doña Sebastiana took the old woman away to La Tierra de los Muertos

"After that, years past and many times Arturo was faced with the chance to use the apple. Every time, however, he had a good reason not to, and was always justified in his reasoning. One day, Arturo's father fell very ill and while Arturo sat at his father's bedside, Doña Sebastiana appeared. Again, like so many other times, she said to Arturo, 'It is this man's time. If you would like to use the apple, now would be best'. But Arturo said, 'No. My father has worked hard to rest. I will not rob him of that'. So he remained quiet as Doña Sebastiana took his father away. More time past, and still he refused to use the apple.

"Overtime he worked hard, but things got really rough, and he lost everything except his dog, the apple, and the clothes he was wearing. One day he sat in the street on a cold night with his dog. They hadn't eaten anything in a long time. He heard a cart rolling up, and Doña Sebastiana was before him. She said to him, 'It is your time. But since you still have the apple, I will give you a chance to use it'. Arturo nodded, pulling the apple from his pocket. Doña Sebastiana waited, expecting him to eat it, but instead he put it on the ground before his dog, who began eating it. Then he stood, dusted himself off, and climbed in her cart. Curious, the Lady Muerte asked 'All this time you've held on to that apple, and even to save yourself you did not use it. Instead you gave it to a starving dog. Why?' Arturo smiled, telling her, 'Who am I to decide who should live and die? That is for you to decide. When you say it is time, then I need no further assurance that there is no more life for me'. Satisfied with the answer, Lady Muerte drove her cart onward," Twister looked to the flashlight in his hands, flickering it off then on nervously, "Um…the end?"

"That was the story?" Otto cried, "That wasn't even scary! Where is the scary stuff? What happened after that? Did this Don chick jump out at him and strangle him…did she eat him? What happened?"

"No," Twister groaned, slumping, "I told you I didn't want to tell one! She took him to la Tierra de los Muertos and that was the end of it! Doña Sebastiana does not jump out at people, she does not eat people, and you should only be scared of her if…if you've done something wrong to her!"

"Jeez, Twist, tell us another story. That one was a dud," Otto moaned, "Tell us a scary one about something else!"

"I don't know any other stories! All the stories I know are about Doña Sebastiana, and none of them are really scary…" Twister protested.

"Then make one up," Otto insisted.

"Otto, that's enough," Ray stepped in, "That was very interesting, Twister, thanks for sharing it with us. I thought it was great."

"Yeah," Reggie snapped to her brother, then looking to Twister, she softly added, "I really liked that story."

"Yeah, it was good," Sam put in, "I've never heard it before."

"Lars told it to me," Twister admitted, "When we were younger and he wasn't _always _a jerk, just every now and then," he was fidgeting, twisting and turning the flashlight in his hands, a bit flustered, "He told it to me because…because we were lost in the woods, and I was scared…I didn't tell it very well…because it was hard, I had to translate it from Spanish," he suddenly put the flashlight down, standing up angrily and brushing the dirt off of himself, "Not every ghost story has to be scary, Otto. And, you know what, if you can't respect Lady Muerte, then I'm not talking to you!" He turned, crawling into the tent and leaving the others behind.

"What is wrong with you, Otto?" Reggie snarled, "It _is_ his birthday. The least you could do is cut him some slack, and maybe _not_ bust on him! We heard scary stories all night! You _forced _him to tell a ghost story, and he did! And, even if it wasn't scary, it was still good."

"Twister looked really upset," Sam commented, "I'm starting to remember some things about this Doña Sebastiana, and I think you may have really dissed his culture, Otto, suggesting she eat people, and that comment about how she shouldn't be beautiful..."

"Oh man," Otto moaned, "I'm sorry, okay, I didn't mean to! I didn't think he would take it so serious!"

"It's not us you should be apologizing to, Rocket boy," Ray told him, "I believe the one who needs to hear it right now is in that tent." Otto sighed, rolling his eyes and making his way after Twister.

-0-0-

Twister lay down, his arm flung over his eyes. He could hear the others talking outside, their words sounded harsh, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He didn't really care. They were probably scolding Otto.

"Good," Twister muttered, "He deserves it."

"_That boy was wrong_," the little boy's voice drifted into Twister's ear, "_That story was the best I've ever heard. I want to hear more about Doña Sebastiana._" Twister froze, heard pounding madly in his chest. This was new. The boy was talking directly to him. He wanted to answer, wondering if it would make him insane. "_I'm glad you didn't make it scary. Those other stories weren't very good, because they were so frightening. I hate scary stories._"

"Yeah," Twister murmured softly in response, "Me too."

"_You…you heard me?_" the voice demanded, trembling, "_You heard me! I know you did!_" Twister felt his stomach flutter, as he lowered his arm from his eyes. There was so much…so much happiness in the voice. Happiness and desperation. That little boy _needed _Twister to be able to hear him. He felt little prickles of goose bumps racing up his arms. He was taking a huge risk, secretly acknowledging what he heard, and in that, acknowledging everything he'd ever seen, or felt, or just simply knew.

"Yes, I can hear you," he whispered. The elation that rushed through Twister was so immense that he had to sit up.

"_You can hear me! Nobody's ever been able to hear me…but you…you can hear me_," the boy quavered with joy, "_I've tried talking to every camper I saw! Nobody's ever listened to me before. Talk to me some more, tell me about yourself! What's your name, how old are you, where do you come from, how long…_"

The flap of the tent flew open, and Twister glowered at Otto, who was crawling through the entry. He crossed his arms over his chest, snorting lightly, and turning away.

"Hey, Twist," Otto began, "I came to…to…um…say…well…I'm sorry. The story was…well…you know how I get sometimes."

"Well, I _don't _forgive you," Twister spat.

"What do you want me to say, Twister?" Otto demanded, "I said I was sorry! You can't be mad at me, it's your birthday!"

"_It's your birthday?_"

"Well," Twister sneered, "Some people don't like telling scary stories."

"I'm sorry I dissed Donna Seabaster," Otto mumbled.

"Doña Sebastiana!" Twister snapped, "Her name is Doña Sebastiana! And she is pretty, and she isn't scary, and she _doesn't eat people_!" They fell silent.

"Why are you so touchy about this, Twist?" Otto finally asked, "I know I totally bagged on your culture, or whatever, but still. You know I didn't do it on purpose…" Twister frowned, leaning back. It was on the tip of his tongue. The whole story, his dream, everything he was seeing, everything he was hearing. This was his chance, to spill it all.

"It's nothing. Forget about it, bro," Twister muttered, "I'm not mad anymore."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It was stupid to get so tweaked," Twister said, looking to Otto, "Cool?"

"Totally," Otto grinned, putting his hand out. Twister stuck his own hand in for a woogie. They sat back, quiet, uncertain what to say. The tension was still there. Twister was still peeved, Otto could tell that, but he didn't want to press it. He'd said they were cool and that's all Otto needed. "Why didn't he ask that his mother be brought back to life?"

"What?"

"In the story," Otto persisted in a low, almost bashful tone, "You said his mom was dead. If it were me, I'd ask…uh…that lady to bring my mother back to life. Why didn't he ask for his mom to be brought back from the dead?"

"It doesn't work that way, man," Twister told him, "She was dead. Dead is dead."

"That's stupid," Otto pressed, "Why couldn't he? I thought this Donna Sebasti-ana lady was like the Grim Reaper."

"But she's not," Twister insisted, hurt, "The Grim Reaper is some skeletal dude in a long black hood, with that curved blade thing, and he comes to drag people to hell. Doña Sebastiana isn't like that. She comes to take people in her cart to la Tierra de los Muertos. She doesn't drag anyone anywhere. You don't understand death, Otto."

"It was a story, Twist," Otto muttered under his breath, "You don't need to understand death. And how do I not understand death...you don't understand death..."

"_I want to talk._"

"So, Lars told you that story, huh?" Otto questioned, hoping to change the subject and avoid another fight.

"Yeah," Twister muttered, "When I was four, before we moved to Ocean Shores. I…um…I had…well, I'd left my house for a reason…I was…well, I was running away," he continued sheepishly.

"_I ran away._"

"Lars came to get me. He found me in the woods around our house, and it was really dark," Twister went on, "I'd gotten lost. We had to walk a long ways, and I…I guess I was really getting on his nerves. So he told me the story, because he knew I liked stories about Doña Sebastiana, to shut me up. When he finished telling the story we were out of the woods and almost home. He let me ride on his back the rest of the way because I was tired."

"Huh? I guess even Lars has to have been nice at least once in his life," Otto commented. The flap of the tent was pulled back and Ray stuck his head in.

"Everything cool in here?" he asked.

"Yeah, dad."

"Sure, Raymundo."

"Okay," Ray conceded, "Because it's time to turn in. You two get ready for bed."

"_I want to talk! Please, talk to me! Twister, talk to me!_" Twister flinched at the eerie little boy's mention of his name. He shuddered, following Otto to prepare for sleep.

Late into the night, the others slept around Twister. He lay awake. The little boy was still there, he could feel him, hear him sobbing. There was so much sadness, and anger in the air. Twister sat up, glancing around at the sleeping forms of his friends. He took a deep breath, before grabbing his jacket and crawling out of the tent.

"Hello?" Twister called tentatively, "Hello? Little kid?" The sobbing ceased.

"_Are you going to talk to me, now?_"

"Yeah," Twister mumbled, sitting on one of the logs. The fire had been put out, but the smoldered wood still steamed in the chill night air, "I couldn't say anything to you before. My friend would have thought I was crazy. He can't hear you."

"_Or he's just not listening_," the little boy replied, sniffling, "_You're name is Twister?_"

"That's what everyone calls me," Twister smiled, pulling his jacket on, "What's yours?"

"_Tommy…I mean, Thomas Gerard Mackeroy. It's your birthday?"_

"Tomorrow," Twister confirmed, sitting back. He felt weird. Not because he was talking to a body-less voice, but because he didn't feel weird about it, it felt natural. It was as thought it wasn't the first time he'd done something like this.

"_How old are you going to be?_"

"Thirteen."

"_Wow! Really? I'm eight…I mean…I was eight, when I…_"

Twister straightened, feeling a lump gather in his throat. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, his chest hurt. Was this boy going to confirm what Twister already assumed?

"You mean…you're…you are…"

"_Dead._"

* * *

END A/N: Alright, first off. That story about Doña Sebastiana, I made it up. Lars probably made it up to. Now, I should mention that in this story, I'm going to stress the bond between Twist and his older brother. It's obvious in the series that Lars is fond of his younger brother, despite how he likes to pick on him. There's going to be a lot of overprotective brother moments, and a lot of sibling rivaly between the two in this story. Just a forewarning. I'm really just going to pick apart the characters, which is going to be fun.

Has anybody noticed that Sam has a bunkbed? Why would an only child need a bunkbed? They've never mentioned in the series that he has a sibling of any sort, have they? Something to ponder on...and it will come in handy later in this particular story...hmmm....

Was there anything else I needed to say? Does anyone know if there was anything else I needed to say? Oi. Now, there are going to be cute fluffy moments, because Twister does have a crush on someone (10 points if you can guess who...), he's in denial about it, but this story isn't a romance. It just wouldn't be the same an SD ff without a little love. They're going to kind of be like...Cardcaptor Sakura moments...aww so cute, when Syaoran blushes and runs away and poor Sakura is all like, "What's up with him?" Okay, maybe not like that. A _lot _subtler. I like to think I make my couplings believable. Anyone care to argue that? Now I'm just babbling.

Oh, another thing. I'm going to be pulling on folklore from a lot of different cultures, not just Mexican (though that's the big one). And there's going to be a few OC character that will have recurring appearances.

Moving on...

um...

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors.

GAH! I have to work. I HATE WORK!

_**REVIEW**_s are loved and worshipped.

ack...I have to close tonight, too...

AND thanks for reading.

Rock on with your bad selves, and get out of my sight until next time!


	4. ¡Feliz Cumpleaños a…BOO!

A/N: Took me long enough, but this is a long chapter so please forgive me!

Thanks for the reviews guys:

SpiceOfLife: I kind of liked that chapter myself..Thanks!

TheAngelOfAnarchy: Have fun with that researching of the Lady Muerte. I have find like...nothing on the internet about her outside of artwork! It's a pain...oh, and props to you! You gave me the idea to incorporate Little Scottie in this chapter (I think...). I've seen stories with Lars/Twist bonding moments...haven't I? I could have sworn I have! Maybe I haven't...I can't remember...in regards to the bunkbed...I think it's just my family is all about practicality. What's practical about having a bunkbed for one kid, right? That's how my family would percieve it. Of course, my family was also poor for a really long time. Me and my two sisters used to share a bed until we moved to our house, and then for awhile my older sister and I had to share a matress on the floor and...okay, that's enough of my sad past. Now I have a friggen' huge bed of my own and my own laptop! ENVY ME! hahaha...

PrinceIzzy1: Peace out, bro.

RelaxingPikachu: I love your reviews. They're always so thorough! I can read them over and over and over again and...I don't, 'cause I don't have the time, but anyhoo...my fics do apparently end up surrounding Twister. Why? Because I love him to pieces! They should give him his own show. BRING BACK TWISTER! Now, I can see Twister talking back to a teacher, but telling one to 'shut up'...I don't think he'd live when his parents got that call...Actually, Yami no Matsuei isn't a lot like this. Yami is about two shinigamis (they're already dead) who work at bringing in people who should be dead but aren't, so that they can go to trialand yada, yada, yada. I mention that as a inspiration for this story due to demons, which come later...hehe...I hope you love him even more as this story progresses. He's going to suffer so much...I already feel so bad...hehe...not really. Cardcaptor Sakura is my favorite anime. Watch it. Love it. Worship it. Was there more I needed to say...? Oh yeah, I have to go review your story! Damnit, and all my forgetfulness. Oh, and about quitting work. Can't. The store will literally burn down without me. I have had at least three managers tell me it is hell when I'm not there. I make pizzas, and when mistakes come out we set them on a table for the employees to eat. It's been pointed out to me that when I'm not on the make-table there is like a huge stack of mistake pizzas, but when I am there may be like two or three that were cancelled, but that's about it. It's a pain, being needed. Don't cry no more, here's your update.

jexsuisxrien: Well, that's a name...a HARD NAME TO TYPE. But it's cool...hehe. Anyhoo. I should probably inform you, I don't write or read slash. Meh, Rocket Power slash, otherwise it's a lie. (2x5, baby! no one understands that reference...ahem...). I have no problem with it (the reading it thing) it's just I have this thing called an "open mind"...if I read slash, then I start to see slash, then I think I can write slash, and I love my Reg/Twist pairing, thank you very much. Truth be told, I'd probably find a new and inventive pairing anyhoo. But...uh...anyways, if you honestly think you can introduce me to nightmares I've never dreamed of, I haven't been writing this story to the best of my ability...YOU ROCK, new reviewer, and READ ON!

Chimaira009: You look familiar. Which of my other stories were you reading? I honestly can't remember, though I think it was a Recess one. Oi...it'll bug me for a long time! Anyways, here's the update.

A few reviewers are missing from this board...have you all lost interest already? Have I offended you? OH NO! I have, haven't I! Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I'm a bitch, there's not much can be done about that! PLEASE COME BACK!

oi...I have abandonment issues.

YAY! The story is here.

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 3¡Feliz Cumpleaños a…BOO! (Happy Birthday to…BOO!)

Twister sank to the damp ground, his back pressed against the log he'd previously been sitting on. The dew of the night air was clinging to the back of his neck. Dead, dead, dead, dead, the word rang in his ears. His mouth was suddenly dry, his heart pounding madly, his head spinning. He was talking to a dead boy.

"No. This isn't crazy," Twister muttered to himself, an attempt at reassurance, "This is that hormone stuff my parents are always going on about with Lars…"

"_What's wrong?_" Tommy asked wistfully.

"I'm talking to a dead kid, what do you think is wrong?" Twister snapped. He quickly regretted it, as hurt washed over him. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I guess it's not really your fault. So…" Twister chewed his tongue somewhat, "What's it like being dead?"

"_I like your hat. I used to have a hat, but not a cool one, like the one you have._"

"Um…thanks," Twister mumbled, lightly touching the mentioned yellow and red striped cap. It was very special, as his parents had bought it for him.

"_Do you come up to this mountain often?_"

"No, not really. We came here to camp for my birthday," Twister explained, relaxing slightly, "You? I mean, did you used to come up here a lot?"

"_No. My class came up here for a trip. I was so excited. It was a father, son, trip. You know, how the schools do those sorts of things…I was having so much fun. Until I was killed_," Tommy said solemnly. Twister felt his heart jump.

"Killed?" he repeated. A crazy man. That's what Reggie and Otto had said, a group of kids, up in the mountain, completely oblivious to the danger they were in. And then, dead. Pieces of mutilated flesh and amputated limbs. He swallowed hard, drawing his legs up to his chest and looking about the dark woods warily.

"_Where do you live?_"

"Ocean Shores," Twister mumbled, distractedly eyeing the forest. He would see movement, or think he saw movement, and picture an insane man, large, with wide red strained yellow eyes, staring out with gnashing brown dagger like teeth, hairy arms, and stringy black hair.

"_Are you near the ocean? Near enough to see it? We didn't live very close to the ocean…I begged my mom to take me every day to the beach…_"

"We live right near the shore," Twister eagerly told him, the reminder of his beloved home enough to pull his thoughts from crazy ax murderers hiding in the shadows of night, "We can walk to the beach anytime we want…except when we're at school, of course. We go surfing, and swimming, and shore boarding, and…"

"_Wow! That sounds like so much fun! I wanted to try surfing, when I was older._"

"I was already surfing when I was eight," Twister proudly said, then, sheepishly, "Well, on little waves, but still!"

"_Really? How did you learn? Who taught you?_"

"My best bro's dad, Raymundo, and our friend Tito," Twister grinned, recalling the day he'd first stood on the surf board, "I was six when I rode my first official wave without wiping! It was disappointing though, because Otto wasn't there to see. I'd gone with my brother, because our parents made him take me…"

"_You have a brother? I wish I had a brother._"

"Trust me when I say, no you don't," Twister cried, "Brothers are such a pain! Especially older brothers! Did you have any siblings? A sister?"

"_No. I was an only child. My parents didn't want a lot of kids,_" Tommy whispered, "_Tell me about your family._"

"Um…my parents both work," Twister said thoughtfully, "And my brother and I go to school. Most of my relatives live in Mexico, or Southern California, Nevada, Texas, Florida, I have an aunt in Georgia, and some in Utah. My dad has a brother in Michigan. My brother and I were born in Mexico, and we lived there until I was four. I don't remember it very well."

"_Is that where you ran away? In Mexico?_"

"Um…yeah," Twister replied quietly.

"_Why did you run away?_"

"Because…my parents and my brother."

"_That's why I ran away. Because of my parents! We're really a lot alike…parents are such a pain, aren't they? When I turned thirteen, I was going to move out._"

"I don't think you can move out when you're thirteen…I think you have to wait until you're at least fifteen," Twister said thoughtfully, "But where would you go?"

"_I know everybody says the circus, but all the people are so happy there! I want to be where everyone is happy. I would be a performer, an acrobat, on the trapeze, you know, the bar hanging from the top of the tent. I went to the circus once, on a fieldtrip. Everyone was watching the people on the trapeze. Our teacher told us it was called a flying trapeze. Cool, huh? I wish I could fly. That would be fun, huh? Do you like the circus?_"

"I did," Twister muttered under his breath, "When I was little. I'm not allowed to go now, ever since I stuck my gum in a clown's hair. I mean, sheesh, how was I supposed to know that was his _real _hair? I just wanted him to leave me alone…"

_"_Twister?" someone called tentatively into the dark. Twister startled, looking to the tent wide-eyed. Sam was knelt in between the entrance, the flaps pushed back, "Who are you talking to?"

"Um…no one," Twister mumbled, nervously fumbling with his jacket zipper. Sam frowned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and shaking his head.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Um…I needed to think?" Twister attempted, and Sam raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

"_Al_right…can you keep the 'thinking' down, though? Some people are trying to sleep," Sam told him, shaking his head, and crawling back into the tent. The flaps fluttered shut and Twister breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against the log and rubbing his hands over his face. He felt a chill touch against his cheek and shivered. It was almost like a small hand of ice pressed into his skin.

"Don't," Twister mumbled, and a shudder raced down his spine.

"_Who was that?_" Tommy asked.

"Sam," Twister answered, closing his eyes. He was tired, exhausted really. He'd seen so much that day, been overwhelmed with so many different and unexplainable emotions and feelings. He would be nauseated one moment, elated the next, then miserable, angry, flustered, then sick. His head would start pounding and he would have to lie down. That's how he'd spent the day at school. He'd found a secluded area and laid his head against the cold cement ground.

"_He's funny looking._"

"He's cool, I guess, for a nerd," Twister replied, "We call him Squid." He settled back, pulling his jacket up around his neck and closing his eyes, yawning, "Didn't you have friends?"

"_No._"

"No?" Twister mumbled drowsily, "Why not?"

"_I just didn't. Twister," _Tommy whispered, the words a cold breeze in Twister's ear. He paid it no mind, "_What's it like to sleep? I've forgotten…_"

"It's like…it's like…" Twister grumbled, drifting off, "It's like sleeping…" His head lolled to the side, and his chest rose and fell with each soft breath. He was out.

_I brought my hands around my body. The landscape was iced over, but there was no snow. It was freezing. I could hear a little boy crying, but I tried to ignore it. The land was barren, jutting black rocks, an ebony canyon. There was a lone tree, an elephant tree, on a high cliff. It was outlined black against the gray horizon. I don't know why it was gray, there were no clouds. I could see blue, as well, hazy. It was water. A lake._

_I walked down the pathway, or more appropriately, formed a pathway of my own. The lake stretched farther than I could see. In the middle of it was a chess table, resting atop the water. There were two chairs on either side of it. I frowned, licking my bottom lip. She sat there in that one chair, watching me expectantly. She was dressed in a layered lace skirt and a high collared pink blouse. Her ever present boa draped about her neck, and a delicate hoop bonnet was tied over her head and under her chin with carefully chosen pink silk ribbon. Her brittle hair dangled down her back, and her hollow eyes bore into me. She was holding a white parasol, decorated with little pink flowers at the rim, and it was balanced on her left shoulder. She twirled it ever so slightly._

_Holding my breath, I stepped forward onto the lake. I was surprised to find that the water held my weight. I walked forward. Glancing down, I noticed how deep and clear the water really was. Sunken to the bottom were people. Humans, thousands of them. Drowned. Their faces were turned up, milk white eyes, and smiling lips. Their hair whipped about in the loose, careless fashion attributed to underwater movement._

_"Un jardin," she told me. I nodded, the implication was sickening but oddly enough, poetically beautiful. I liked it for some reason. A garden of bodies. I continued forward in a less than confident stride and stopped in front of the chess board table. It was marble and the pieces were already set up. The top of the queens were stamped with a skull I noticed. She motioned to the chair, "Siéntese. Ensámbleme, el pequeño. (Sit. Join me, little one.)" _

_I did as I was told, pulling the chair out and sitting carefully down into it. It was plainly designed, marble black. She sat in the white one. The backs were emblazoned with the outlining of golden crosses._

_"¿Usted recuerda quiénes soy? (Do you remember who I am?)" she questioned. I nodded._

_"Si, claro, Lady Muerte," I answered, my voice shaky, "Yo recuerdo. ¿Pero por qué estoy aquí? Está mi tiempo...? (I remember. But why am I here? Is it my time...?)"_

_"No, el pequeño. ¿Es su cumpleaños, verdad? (No, little one. It is your birthday, right?)"_

_"Si, yo tiene trece años," I replied, "¿Está esto la Tierra de los Muertos¿He vuelto? (Is this the Land of the Dead? Have I returned?)"_

_"No. Esto es una ilusión (This is an illusion.)," she explained, "Ninguno de esto es verdadero. Es todo el un sueño. Un fantasma de un sueño (None of this is real. It is all a dream. A ghost of a dream.)," she motioned to the chess board in front of us, "¿Usted jugará con mí? (Will you play with me?)"_

_"No sé jugar este juego (I don't know how to play this game.)," I told her bashfully. She smiled softly, placing a thin bone hand on one of her white pawns._

_"Pero tu sabes. Tu sabes muchas cosas que tu no estás enterado de. (But you do know. You know many things you are not aware of.)"_

_She moved her pawn, two spaces ahead, then folded her hands neatly in her lap and looked to me in anticipation of my move. I looked down to the table, touching my own black pawn first. It was warm. I'd expected cold. It radiated warmth, like a living thing. I drew my hand back in surprise. I touched the knight, then, and pulled back as though burned. It was colder than ice. I narrowed my eyes at the board. The pieces amazed me. The king was simplistic, undefined, but the queen was crafted beautifully with the markings of Doña Sebastiana herself. The bishops were tall and stately, carved with stern faces, curled on their backs was the ebbing of feathers. The knights were gnarled creatures, three heads melded into one form. A hound. The rooks were ghastly, spectral beings with gaping holes where their eyes should be. My stomach lurched just looking at them. And the pawns. The pawns that radiated warmth. They were shapeless lumps, undistinguished save for the very human warmth they offered._

_I moved a pawn forward. She smiled approvingly and moved her next piece, another pawn. We continued like that, battling on the chess board, taking one another's pieces, moving our own, strategically maneuvering as though it were a battlefield and we were gods, claiming the lost pieces, the dead, of our enemy. We were silent, contemplating our next moves with careful precision. I was intrigued that I knew where each piece should go, how it moved, and even the best way to move it. She didn't seem surprised at all when I placed my rook nearby her king and solemnly announced, "Check."_

_"Mate," she retorted, tipping over her own king and looking up complacently to me. We held one another's gazes, and she reached forward, touching her fingertips beneath my chin, "¿Qué tu sabes de cielo y de infierno? (What do you know of heaven and hell?)"_

_"El cielo está arriba con el dios. Cuando es bueno dado de la gente es donde van. El infierno está abajo con el diablo. Cuando es malo dado de la gente es donde van (Heaven is above with god. When good people die it's where they go. Hell is below with the devil. When bad people die it's where they go.)," I answered without hesitation. She nodded, cupping my chin with her hand._

_"Así pues, entonces tu no sabes nada de él (So, then you know nothing of it.)," she whispered, "Pero pronto usted sabrá todo el demasiado. (But soon you will know all too much.)"_

_"No entiendo. ¿Por qué soy que ve las cosas que estoy viendo¿Por qué soy audiencia y discurso con los muertos? (I don't understand. Why am I seeing the things I'm seeing? Why am I hearing and speaking with the dead?)" I demanded, and a sadness crept over the Lady Muerte. She lowered her head, and was silent. _

_"Usted es tan joven y tan viejo. (You are so young and so old.)"_

_The table grew hot, suddenly, and flames began to lick their way up the side. The chess pieces melted. I pushed myself away from it, shocked, and the water beneath me gave way. I sank into its icy embrace, kicking and pulling, uselessly attempting to make my way back to the top. The lady watched as a sunk below. The drowned bodies gathered near me, their empty eyes staring accusingly at me. Echoing in the depth was the boy sobbing, and their cold clammy skin pressed against my own, attempting to steal any last warmth I possessed, as if the chill above hadn't been enough. They greedily fought to get at me, deadened hands raking into my flesh, bobbing bodies, disturbed by my living presence. Their hair choked me, blinded me, thick wet cobwebs trapping me, the fly. I opened my mouth to scream, and bitter water quickly filled it, tasting of ash and human flesh. I gagged, flailing wildly, the burning in my chest nothing compared to the burning in my eyes._

"Wake up, dude, wake up!" someone was yelling. Twister kicked out, his foot connecting with something soft. A groan followed, "Jesus, Twist, that hurt!"

_"_Augh! The ax murderer! No!" Twister cried.

"Chill, Twist," Reggie's voice broke through to him, "Otto and I made that up."

"Otto?" Twister moaned in confusion, rubbing at his eyes, and pulling himself up. The name sounded familiar. His backside was wet with dew moistened soil, and his whole body was iced over. Otto was knelt on the ground, clutching his sore stomach where Twister had landed the kick, and Reggie was hovered over him.

"Ow, Twister, that really hurt," Otto persisted.

"Well, you shouldn't have gone near him when he was thrashing around like that," Sam said wisely. He was sitting on the log across from Twister, eating a banana.

"What's up, Twist, you don't look so good?" Reggie questioned, a hand on her brother's shoulder, looking to Twister with softened eyes. Twister rubbed his head, sitting up and looking around dazedly. Then a sly smirk crossed Reggie's face, "You didn't really believe there was a crazy killer loose on this mountain, did you?"

"N-n-no," Twister insisted, frowning and flustered. Otto managed to chuckle through his pain and Sam even cracked a smile. Ray shook his head at the kids, crossing over to Twister with concern.

"Otto, Reggie, what have you two been up to?" he demanded, putting a comforting hand on Twister's shoulder, "It's okay, Twister, you just had a bad dream."

"Oh," Twister mumbled, attempting to stand, then slumping back against the log. A bad dream, he thought miserably. Yeah, right. They didn't know the half of it. He frowned. His head hurt, and he could barely see through his bleary vision. Everything looked red. His heart was pounding, and despite how cold he was, he was drenched in sweat. Maybe that _was _why he was so cold. He dug his fingernails into the soil beneath him. He couldn't remember. The dream was gone. He struggled to remember it, his chest ached. He knew that whatever he'd seen was important. It was a dream, he reminded himself, how could it be important?

"Let's work on cleaning up camp," Ray announced, ruffling Otto's hair as he passed towards the tent. Twister sneezed.

"I don't feel good," he grumbled and Reggie crossed her arms over her chest, while Otto and Sam simply rolled their eyes.

"What did you expect after sleeping out in the wet dirt with little more than your PJs and a windbreaker on?" Reggie questioned rhetorically before following after her father to help break down the tent and roll up their sleeping bags.

"What were you doing out here all night, anyhow?" Sam asked, finishing his fruit and throwing the peel into a small bag they'd set aside for trash.

"Yeah, if you were so scared of a killer on the loose, wouldn't it make more sense to sleep inside the safety of the tent?" Otto added with a humorous smirk.

Twister shrugged, pulling himself up and making his way towards the tent as well. He needed to get dressed. Everyone else already had their clothes on. He tried to piece together the night before. What had he been doing?

Thomas Gerard Mackeroy. It flashed in Twister's mind almost instantly. Everything flooding back. The story, the campfire, being angry at Otto, the feeling of the presence of death, the little boy's voice, his conversation with Tommy the dead boy. The ghost. He strained to hear the surrounding forest for some sign, some slight noise, to prove that night before had happened, or even disprove it. Nothing. Not even the tell-tale sounds of a neglected child crying. He slumped on the floor of the tent, watching Reggie and Ray from the corner of his eyes as they curled up the sleeping bags. He shuffled through his backpack, a hefty mess of bundled up clothes. He found his jeans and quickly pulled them on. Then his clean shirt, ripping off the one he'd worn to bed and pulling the new one over his head. He found his socks as well, then stumbled around the tent until he found his shoes.

"Raymundo," Twister murmured. It was going to bother him. He had to ask. He just had to.

"What's up, Twister?" Ray straightened, sticking the last of the sleeping bags in their stack and looking to the little redheaded boy.

"Has anyone ever…well…was anybody ever…killed up here in this area?" Twister asked, somehow tangling a knot in his shoelaces. He worked at undoing it, not wanting to look up and see the expressions on Ray and Reggie's faces. Their silence was enough.

"I told you, Twister," Reggie sighed, falling next to him, "Me and Otto made that up."

"I'm not talking about some crazy dude," Twister snapped, frowning at his shoelace. He was only making it worse, "I'm talking about…well…like…maybe…one kid."

"I guarantee you, Twister," Ray said dubiously, "Nobody has ever died up here, or been killed." He clapped his hands together, bundling the sleeping bags together and carrying them from the tent.

"Hey, Twist," Reggie whispered with a smirk, and he looked to her, "Happy birthday," she told him, tugging his hat over his eyes, before leaving the tent. He smiled slightly, straightening the cap.

They loaded the woody wagon up once more and drove down the road in silence. Ray turned the radio on in an attempt to liven the mood, but leaving the camping grounds was never as fun as going to them. Twister slumped in his seat, closing his eyes as they drove down the freeway. He didn't want to see anything that he wasn't supposed to. No dead people. The sun beat down on his face through the window. It was warm.

Then suddenly, it was as though he was thrown in a pool of cold water. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth, as if it was in the very air he breathed. His eyes flickered open momentarily. They were moving through a wreckage. He felt his heart pound like mad, red wash over him and he tried to keep from screaming. He squirmed, cold washing over his body and tears filling his eyes. He squeezed them shut, wrapping his arms about his body. Everyone else in the car was calm, relaxed. Reggie was singing along with the radio, Otto was sleeping, Sam was…Sam was staring at Twister with concern.

"What?" Twister mumbled.

"You okay?" Sam whispered, so as not to catch the attention of the others.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You've been acting weird. You look sick," Sam began and Twister shook his head, turning to look out the window, back to the wreckage. It was a minivan, crushed by a semi-truck. He could see a little boy, popped like a grape, between the rear-view mirror and the grid of the semi. Blood splattered across cracked glass. Somehow it reminded him of Tommy.

"I'm fine," he repeated, as unconvincingly as the first time, "I slept outside last night remember? I think I caught a cold," he sniffled, mostly for effect, "And I'm getting a little motion sickness, is all…"

"You? Getting motion sickness?" Sam restated, dumbfounded. The concept was a little farfetched, Twister had to admit, "You were talking to yourself last night."

"I was not," Twister snapped. Ray looked into the rearview mirror back at them, and the two boys fell silent. Otto shifted slightly, mumbling something in his sleep. His head fell on Sam's shoulder, who stared in discomfort at the sleeping Rocket boy. They remained silent the rest of the way. Twister staring absently out the mirror, Sam glancing at him every now and then with subtle interest. Something was up with the other boy, Sam could discern that, and it didn't seem he'd be giving answers anytime soon. Of course, lack of cooperation had never stopped Sam from figuring things out before.

Otto woke up just as they reached Ocean Shores familiar streets. Upon which, he and Reggie got in an argument over the radio station until Ray shouted at them, settling the debate by switching the station to golden oldies. The kids all groaned, and Twister felt a relieved smile slide across his face. It was almost as though the incidents over the past couple days hadn't even happened.

Then the distant smell of death wafted through the air and Twister's nausea kicked in once more. He found himself missing those great outdoors. Too many people died in the city. He was ready to be in the quiet of his home. To relax, maybe take a hot bath, eat some soup and sleep.

They pulled into the Shore Shack's parking lot, and the kids jumped out, eagerly running towards the Rocket family's shore side restaurant. Twister was surprised that it was all shut up. They had to roll up the metal doors, and the lights flickered on.

"_SURPRISE_!" everyone shouted and Twister jumped back, startled. The Shack had been decorated with streamers, balloons, and leftover luau ornaments. There was a decent crowd gathered in the Shack's dining area. The gang's friends from school, Eddie, Oliver, Sherry, Trish, Trent, and so forth were gathered there. Twister's parents, Lars, and several of his cousins, aunts, and uncles were there as well. Officer Shirley was sitting at the bar with Conroy, and Tito was in the back with the Stimpletons manning the grill and serving up Hula burgers and Shake fries. Lame-o the clown was performing in the corner.

"Happy birthday, mi hijo," Sandy cooed, crossing the room to press a kiss to Twister's cheek. He squirmed, smiling half-heartedly, and turning red as the crowd laughed.

"Mom" he groaned in embarrassment, then looking around wide-eyed"What's all this..."

"Your birthday party," Otto provided, "_Duh_."

"Oh, cool," he grinned, "Where's the cake and ice cream?"

"That's my question," Sam spoke up, licking his lips and rubbing his stomach. Others stepped forward to congratulate Twister on the big '1-3', ruffling his hat, patting his shoulders, hugging and kissing him - that was from family members. Lars begrudgingly stepped forward and Twister smirked up at him, expecting a painfully kind word from the older Rodriguez..

"Do I give you your birthday whomping now, or later?" Lars hissed, and Twister winced.

"I prefer never," he quipped. Lars growled, turning and leaving towards the front counter to grab a burger. Sherry and Trish approached him, smiling and giggling.

"So, how's it feel to join us in the adolescent years," Sherry asked, smiling.

"The add-a-what years?" Twister scrunched his nose.

"She means being a teenager now," Trish explained.

"Oh," Twister frowned, looking down at the rest of his body, to his feet, to his hands, then back up to the girls, "I feel about the same as I did before. Where's my presents?"

"You act about the same as you did before, too," Trish laughed, and Sherry reached forward to pinch Twister's cheek.

"He's not a wittle boy anymore," she teased and he pushed her away.

"Cut it out," he snapped.

"Hey, what's that there?" Trish pointed to Twister's chin, and he frowned, crossing his eyes in a failed attempt to see what she was talking about.

"What? Where?" he demanded.

"Is that…?" Sherry began with a sly smirk, "Is that his…"

"I think it is," Trish grinned bemused.

"My what? What are you talking about?"

"His first pimple," they squealed together and Twister looked at them horrified.

"_What?_ It is not!"

"Quit teasing him, you two," Trent interrupted, coming to slip an arm over Twister's shoulders, "Don't let them bother you, mate. They're only jealous because they know now that you'll have your eyes set on other girls and won't have time to play with them anymore."

"Play with us?" Trish piped, raising an eyebrow, "What are you getting at?"

"Yeah," Sherry pressed, "Why would we be jealous of Twister looking at other girls?"

"Because it's so obvious the way you two look at him," Trent taunted, "How you ladies _really _feel about him. You've been waiting all this time for him to reach a more matured age. I've seen it before, it's apparent you Sheilas fancy this here mate."

"They what?" Twister questioned, before grinning when seeing the wide-eyed expressions of Trish and Sherry.

"Let's go, Trish," Sherry muttered, pink-faced, and grabbing her friend's arm, dragging her away. Twister waved after them, and him and Trent broke into laughter.

"That was pretty good," Twister admitted, "Thanks, dude."

"No worries," Trent laughed, "It was a good time. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks," Twister replied.

"Was wondering, have you seen Reggie?"

"Yeah," Twister frowned, "I think she went to help serve food."

"Right. Good on ya, mate, once again. I'll catch you later," Trent nodded, jogging towards the counter. Twister watched him leave with unsettling feeling in his stomach. Why did the fact Trent asked about Reggie bother him so much? No, Twister assured himself, it's not because he asked about Reggie. It's because the New Zealander was so eager to ditch Twister for Reggie. Yeah, that was it. And it was because he felt sick. He had to get some fresh air.

Twister maneuvered his way out of the restaurant, while the guests chatted. He walked to the pier railing, leaning over it and staring at the sand and dirty patio tables below. He laid his chin on his arms, gazing at the ocean scenery. The beach was empty, a few seagulls flapping in the distance towards their nests. The moon was full, high in the sky and reflected down in the spraying foam water below. He'd seen it before. The lone surfboard kicking up on the sand, the limp body. Her careful facial features, full deep red lips, long black lashes, smooth complexion, lithe body, glistening tan skin, drenched curls slicked back and tangled in her eyes. Her hair was a deep purplish red, so dark that it appeared almost black in that night air. Her red board shorts were torn, and her top was stretched in its saturation across her chest and broad back. There were obvious scratches and deep cuts on her legs, arms, shoulder blades, and neck. She moved with the water, and it gave her the eerie impression that she was still alive. She wasn't, of course. The leash around her ankle was broken and her board was pushing it's way onto the beach beside her. She was pretty, once, filled with life and energy. He knew because he'd seen all the pictures, all the home videos. Lying there, she looked dull, extinguished. Her arm was tucked under her body, awkwardly, and there was a large gash across her forehead and eye, where the coral reef had caught her. It marred her face. There was no blood. It just shined, pinkish flesh colored.

Twister closed his eyes. Opened them again. It remained, the image. He sighed, burying his face in his hands and thinking of Tommy. Where had the little ghost boy gone? And why did he care so much?

"Twister?" the voice was soft, and the redhead turned in surprise, thinking the little dead boy had somehow followed him. His heart was pounding and he frowned down at his cousin.

"You scared me, little Scottie," Twister hissed, "What do you want?" The little boy smiled sweetly, running to wrap Twister in a hug. Twister sighed once more, heavily this time.

"I got you a present," Scottie said, taking Twister's hand and dragging him back in to the Shack. The little boy dug through the pile of fancily wrapped packages, finding a small box with pink and purple paper. He held it out. "It's for you. I picked it out and wrapped it myself because you're my favorite cousin." Twister groaned in exasperation, rolling his eyes and taking the gift.

"Thanks," he mumbled, opening it while Scottie watched eagerly. It was a little brown cardboard box. He popped it open to discover an assortment of colorful plastic bangles, "These are great," Twister muttered, "Thanks." Scottie grinned, throwing his arms around Twister once more.

"Cake, everyone!" Ray announced, carrying in the large triple layer baked good topped with thirteen lit candles, and one to grow on. Raul carried the other end and they laid the pastry on a cleared table as everyone sang.

"Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…" Twister smiled, leaning forward in preparation of blowing out the candles. "Happy birthday dear Twister…"

"_Happy birthday to you_!" Twister paused, feeling his heart skip a beat. For a moment, he thought he'd heard Tommy's soft voice singing in his ear. But it couldn't have been. He blew out the candles and a cheer broke out in the crowd. That was impossible, right? Tommy was gone? He couldn't of possibly followed Twister, could he have?

Twister watched as his father cut slices for everyone, half aware that people surrounded him, half aware that he was scowling, half aware that the party was still going, half aware that he didn't care. He'd often heard thirteen was an unlucky number, but this was ridiculous.

* * *

END A/N: WOW! A second dream. What could it mean? Does that rhyme? Um...

I apologize for the Sherry and Trish moment. They did strike me as the type to do that, however...so...yeah...hehe! Um...there must be something I need to talk about...um...

Quick recap: As of right now, Twister has encountered two types of ghosts. Ghosts of people, and ghosts of memories. The ghosts of people are like Tommy, the ones who talk and sometimes acknowledge the presence of the living. The ghosts of memories are the images of deathly scenes. The chess pieces are important, they all symbolize something. Um...I've got nothing.

My mind is drawing a complete blank right now. I have no idea what I was going to say. OH, I should mention. Doña Sebastiana is figured in Mexican catholicism, mostly, though I don't know the whole back story. That's why the chess game featured all that religious stuff. I'm atheist, I should probably tell you all that. And I'm not going to be entering the religious realm of this story, not in the way I probably could. I'm not taking an atheist standpoint with this fic either (that's obvious). Um...anybody who's read Killing the Daisies should know, if I touch the subject of God, I touch it lightly. And there is no debating.

I don't want any reviews about how God does/doesn't exist, and how I'm presenting him wrong, or how I need to feature him in the story more, or shit like that. AND NO TRYING TO CONVERT ME TO ANYONE'SRESPECTIVE RELIGIONS! I've successfully fended off Mormons, Christians, mormons, mormons, mormons...yeah, I live in Nevada, we got mormons everywhere. Not that I have anything against Mormons. Some of my good friends were mormons. All stabbed me in the back too, the assholes...um...(desperately seeking to save face...) my favorite teacher is mormon (screwed that one up...).

Something you should all know. Don't debate with me on religion. It is a hobby of mine, and I've taken a college level course on Faith, so I know a lot. I've read parts of the bible too...ohhh...I'm pretty skilled, eh? I need to read the bible, actually. It's one of the greatest works of fiction, I hear. (j/k). If you're gonna read my author's notes, you have to be pretty loose. You can't take anything I say at face value. JUST LAUGH, IT'S FUNNY! LIKE TBS! I KNOW FUNNY!

Now, I'm just talking to talk. Disregard all of that up there, and I deeply apologize.

I'm just putting off my homework is all. I have to practice the guitar as well. Let's wrap this up...

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors, any raunchy attempts at humor, any offensive opinions the author may have divulged, any...this list could go on.

Have I pissed you guys off, or moved you with my wit? Either way, _**REVIEW**_ and tell me what's raging through your mind.

I'm hungry.

Thanks for Reading. And once again, I AM _**SO **_SORRY!


	5. Nombre de un Fantasma

A/N: I finished this a long time ago and just never posted it. Don't know why. But people have been getting rabid and whatnot and I don't know...I figured it would be a waste if I never put it up. Don't get too excited, it doesn't mean I'll be posting like mad again, my life's too much of a mess for that right now.

Anyways. It's not that great a chapter but it progresses the story a bit and Twister learns a bit more about the "dead".

ENJOY.

* * *

Chapter 5: Nombre de un Fantasma (Name of a Ghost)

Twister let the water rock him loftily, splashing up onto his board and caressing his legs. He watched the even break, staring off into the horizon in an almost zombie-like state. As much as he tried, he couldn't shake the image of an underwater garden of bodies, and each time the water lapped up against his legs, he flinched, thinking of their rubbery flesh against his skin. Too caught up in his musings, he didn't realize when Otto sailed in next to him, plopping down on his own board and looking expectantly to the zoned-out redhead.

"Yo, Twist," Otto called suddenly, waving his hand in his friend's face. Twister startled backwards, swaying back and forth on his board, before regaining balance and slumping forward to scowl at Otto.

"What's your problem, man?" Twister demanded, "I almost fell in."

"Oh no, what a tragedy that would have been. Getting wet at the beach," Otto jeered, rolling his eyes, "Dude, why aren't you surfing? The waves have been supreme all day and you've been off in…"

"La La land?" Sam offered, as he paddled over on his long board.

"I'm just thinking, alright," Twister snapped. Otto and Sam exchanged looks before breaking into laughter.

"That's a good one, Twist," Otto chuckled, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes, "But honestly, what's wrong with you, man?"

Twister slammed the water with his hand, sending an angry spray up at his friends, and turned, laying flat on his board and paddling into shore. Reggie sailed up to Otto and Sam from her run in the pipe and stared quizzically at Twister's retreating form.

"What's with him?" she asked, turning her attention to the other two boys. Otto shrugged and Sam twirled his fingers guiltily in the water.

"We may have been a little harsh on him," Sam said sheepishly, then looking conspiratorially between the Rocket siblings, "But haven't you noticed…Twister's been acting really weird since the camping trip."

"Maybe he caught a cold," Otto shrugged, "It's my run," he paddled into the break and Reggie and Sam shook their heads at him.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," Reggie said, reaching forward to ruffle the younger boy's hair, "Twist is getting older…and he is at that age…maybe he's just got girls on the brain." She grinned, turning to watch her brother and cheer him on. Sam found Twister in the distance on the shore. He'd dropped his board unceremoniously on the sand and was slumped, sitting beside a half-ruined sand castle and staring at something on the shore line in a seeming daze. He looked sick, if anything. Sam shook his head, forcing himself to chuckle.

"Love sick," he muttered, turning around to watch the infamous Rocket boy as well. But he couldn't shake his intuitive feeling, that Sherlock Holmes need inside him to solve any mystery that presented itself, that something was seriously wrong with Twister.

Twister had, however, practically collapsed when he'd reached the dry sand of the beach. Everything had weakened inside of him. He wanted to attribute the feeling to the hot sun, soaking in the salt water, and the fact he'd only had half a dry piece of toast that morning, and it was already evening. He hadn't touched his Shore Shack burger. He'd lost his appetite completely when he'd left his house, and it didn't look like it was coming back any time soon.

That body of the broken woman still lay there. But now it was so close, he could practically reach out and touch it. He tried to avoid looking at it, but it was so grotesquely beautiful, he couldn't peel his eyes away, even as young shoobies ran past him giggling and screaming, kicking sand up on his lap and hands. Even as it began to grow dark and his friends sailed up to the beach, walking up to join him, still talking about the killer moves Reggie and Otto had each pulled off, and trying to decide who had given the most awesome run. Sam was trying to remain neutral, but it was obvious he thought Otto's run had been better and he just didn't want to say so, as Reggie was his best friend, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"What about you, Twist?" Otto demanded, and Twister flickered a glance up to his best bro.

"Huh?"

Reggie fell to her knees in front of him, saying, "Who was way gnarlier out there? Me," she smiled prettily and Twister faintly smiled back, "Or my lame-o brother." Twister looked between the two of them, who stared expectantly down at him. Finally, he blinked several times, as though breaking from a trance.

"Are you guys done surfing?" he asked blankly, and Otto groaned loudly.

"You weren't watching? Bro, I landed a perfect McTwist, which is more than I can say for my sister's pathetic…"

"Inverted aerial with major backside air and my own little style added in, bro, even you have to admit it was sick," Reggie interjected.

Twister pulled himself to his feet, trying to dust the sand off himself to no avail. It stuck to his still damp body stubbornly. He grabbed his board up, also covered in sand, and followed his friends up towards the Pier and the Shore Shack, Otto and Reggie still arguing while Sam attempted unsuccessfully to play mediator. Twister gave in to the urge to glance back at that broken body, and he found himself staring once more. A hand brushed his arm and he looked startled. Sam and Otto were almost up to the Shore Shack, still talking, but Reggie had stopped and was looking at him with concern.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Why's everybody asking me that, _again_?" Twister snapped, and she pulled back as though burned.

"Sorry," she muttered. He winced.

"I'm fine, okay, Reg," he sighed. She smiled encouragingly.

"Look, don't let Sam and Otto bum you out. You know how Otto can be, and he doesn't mean to come off as harsh…he really doesn't…"

"I know, Reg," Twister grinned, and they stood silently looking at their sand covered toes, each a little pink in the face. Suddenly, to break the reverie and not knowing what else to do, Reggie lightly punched his shoulder and smirked at him.

"I'm so craving fish tacos," she told him earnestly.

"Yeah…uh…me, too," Twister lied. For the first time in his life, he wasn't even sure he could eat a fish taco. He followed her begrudgingly up towards the bay side restaurant, struggling to keep his eyes forward. They set their boards against a pillar with Otto's and Sam's, and joined the two boys at a table. Both already had food in front of them and were quickly gorging themselves. Tito was quick to swoop on the table and lay more plates in front of the just arrived teens. He grinned at them.

"How's it going, little cuzzes?" the large Hawaiian man asked, and Reggie was first to pipe a "great", Twister muttered a half-hearted "fine" and seeming satisfied with their answers, Tito moved back to the grill behind the counter, glancing every now and then over his shoulder at the television, perched high up on one of the pillars, that was tuned in on the local news. Raymundo was behind the counter running a rag over it's top. The Shore Shack was pretty empty that evening, which wasn't too unusual. It was the slow season. Beginning of the school year, very few shoobies in town.

"Sam, your mother called," Raymundo told the stout blonde boy, who nodded between mouthfuls, "I told her you'd be eating dinner here. She said it was fine."

"Okay," Sam swallowed hard, nodding and taking a gulp of his soda. The other kids were eating their dinners quite heartily, but Twister simply picked at his. His three friends began chatting about different things, skateboarding at Madtown tomorrow, the upcoming X-Games, the next snowboarding trip up to Mt. Baldy. Twister tried to pay attention, but his thoughts were flooded with voices that he was becoming a bit more successful at pushing to the back of his mind, and thoughts of that ghost boy and his dream, most of which he couldn't remember, and so many other things clouding his head.

"…Little Thomas Mackeroy…" Twister's eyes shot up the moment he heard it and he quickly scanned the dining area of the Shore Shack, looking for the person who had said the name. His heart was pounding, and he was desperately searching, straining his ears. And then, his eyes trailed up to the television. A pretty anchor woman standing in front of a fancy collage filled with missing children's posters was on screen. She wore a somber expression, talking in a strong, grave voice.

"Thomas was eight when he disappeared five years ago on a school field trip…" the woman was saying and Twister straightened.

In the few days that had passed since the camping trip he'd looked everywhere for a sign, for some kind of proof, that the things he was hearing, and the things he was seeing, were real. But he was beginning to doubt, beginning to wonder if he was cracking. That the conversation with Tommy had been a figment of his imagination, and that he'd made it all up. And there, on that screen, pouring from that woman's lips, was the proof he'd been waiting for. He felt like crying. He didn't know whether he was happy he wasn't losing it or devastated that ghosts really were floating around him and he was the only one that could see and hear them.

"That's a major bummer," Raymundo commented, leaning across the counter and staring up at the screen, "He'd be about you kids' age now," Sam, Otto, and Reggie fell silent, looking to the older man curiously, and then glancing up at the screen, where they were showing a picture now of the boy that was Thomas Gerard Mackeroy. Twister swallowed hard, studying the little glowing and smiling child on that screen. He had a wide grin, though he was missing his two front teeth. He had shaggy blonde hair, and a neat little suit. It was a picture provided by his parents to the police at the time of the disappearance, the somber woman was saying. The picture faded away and the woman filled the screen again, a number flashing in white beneath her.

"If you have any information regarding this or any missing child featured today, please call…" she pleaded, saying aloud the numbers on the screen. Ray lifted the remote, turning the television off and sighing.

"It's so sad, kids disappearing like that," he lamented, tossing the damp towel into a nearby pail of sanitizer. The kids chirped agreement, but Twister gaped at the screen, not even hearing as his friends began chatting again. He wasn't sure how to feel. Now he had a face to go with the name. There was something eerie about that. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt the chill of death.

"_I always hated that picture…"_ Twister startled, bolting to his feet, his chair tipping over behind him. He darted his head back and forth around the Shore Shack dining room, his friends staring at him in stun.

"Twister, are you okay?" Sam was the first to ask.

"Uh…" Twister stammered, "I'm…uh…I have to go." Before any more could be said, he turned, bolting from the Shack.

"That was weird," Otto noted.

"He didn't even take his board," Reggie agreed.

Twister ran, though he wasn't sure where he was going. All around he heard the bodiless voices following him, taunting him, tormenting him. He pushed his way through the few people walking along the Pier who shouted disgruntled indignation at him. He kept going until he couldn't run anymore and realized he didn't know where he was going as it was. He found himself at the edge of the Pier. There weren't a lot of people around, as it was late. Just shop keepers closing their stores down and patrons rushing home. The lights on the railings of the boardwalk were turned on, illuminating the pathway like little fairies dancing in the night. The moon reflected brilliantly off the ocean. The whole atmosphere seemed serene and calm. Twister took a moment to catch his breath before speaking.

"Tommy?" But without needing an answer he knew the little ghost boy was there. He could feel it, shivering beneath his skin.

_"Did I scare you?_" Tommy eagerly questioned. Twister shuddered, glancing warily over his shoulder. He was, for the most part, alone. Nobody around to think he was insane.

"I thought…" Twister started, but shook his head decidedly, "No. It doesn't matter what I thought. How did you…when did you…_why are you here?_"

"_I thought we were friends_," Tommy pouted, his voice catching. Twister felt the harrowing sadness echo in his mind. He frowned, taking a few deep breaths and sorting through what he should say.

"Uh…we are. I mean…yeah. But I…you were at the mountains. How did you get here?"

_"It wasn't hard_," Tommy admitted, his tone lighthearted again. Relief washed over Twister but he didn't relax, _"When you're dead, you can pretty much go anywhere that you think about being. I wanted to be where you were so…I went. And here I am!"_

Twister sighed, crossing to the Pier railing and leaning over it to stare out at the open ocean. He felt the chill of the dead boy against the back of his neck, but wasn't sure what to say. Was he going insane? Was this all just a figment of his imagination?

_"Twister…?"_

"Yeah…sorry," Twister cleared his throat, straightening somewhat, "I just…well…I was kind of worried about you is all. And here you are…so I guess I was worried for nothing."

_"You were worried about me?"_ Tommy restated in a solemn whisper. Twister took a deep breath, rubbing his bare arms.

"I should probably head home. People will think I'm strange standing around alone out here," Twister announced with certainty. He waited for an answer, but Tommy was silent. Twister could feel his presence like a glimmer in the back of his mind. He shoved his hands in his pockets, starting down the Pier towards his cul-de-sac. He could sense Tommy following him, "So…did you get lonely on the mountain, or something?"

"_Sort of," _Tommy mumbled.

"I thought dead people…you know…haunted places," Twister continued. It seemed awkward to not say anything, but at the same time, he found it uncomfortable to think it were awkward not to converse with the dead boy, "Like…couldn't leave the place they haunt or something like that."

_"Dead people can go anywhere they want. Places don't really mean anything to the dead," _Tommy explained quietly, and Twister could tell by that nagging knowledge prickling under his skin that the little ghost was distractedly deep in thought, "_You really just start to forget things like that. I don't even remember where I used to live. I stayed in the mountains so long because that's where I died. It's the only place I can really remember anymore."_

"Oh," Twister murmured, only partially paying attention.

There was so much going through Twister's mind at that moment. He could barely concentrate on any one thing. The feeling rushing through his system was similar to that of adrenaline. The dead were all around and he could feel them pressing in on him. Tommy's presence was the most resolute. It was foremost of all others. The emotions of that little boy became Twister's own. It blurred his reality to the point were he could barely separate his own thoughts from Tommy's. The dead weighed heavily on his shoulders and drew the heat from his body, the breath from his lungs, the energy from his heart. He forced himself to focus on the sidewalk.

"So…" Twister started quietly, "You just going to follow me from now on?"

_"For now, I suppose…if it's okay with you_," Tommy answered.

"I don't see how I could stop you if it wasn't," Twister replied, turning the corner to his cul-de-sac and frowning up the street at his house, "My ma's going to wonder why I'm home so early. I usually hang out with the gang until I absolutely _have_ to come home…and even then I'm usually past curfew."

_"You could tell her you didn't feel well,_" Tommy suggested. Twister shook his head.

"I don't want her to worry or nothing."

"_Oh._" Tommy was quiet a long time and Twister edged his way forward, but made no real progress towards his house. "_You could just not go home yet."_

"I don't have anything else to do. I already told my friends I was going home and…"

_"We could sit out here and talk…like we did on the mountains."_

A shiver ran down Twister's spine. The taste in his mouth was brittle and metallic. He closed his eyes and thought it through. Part of him knew that this was all crazy. Not surfing when the waves were gnarly, bolting from a hot Shore Shack dinner, and talking with a ghost. But he was curious. There were so many things he wanted to know about the little boy. The face on that television set came rushing to the front of Twister's mind. Shaggy blond hair, two missing front teeth. A wholesome looking young kid. Someone Twister probably would have hung out with when he was eight. Thomas Gerard Mackeroy. With a heavy heart and a deep sigh, Twister stepped down and took a seat on the curb. He wrapped his arms about his knees and leaned forward, eyes studying each dipping crevice of the asphalt.

_"What do you want to talk about?"_

It was an odd question, Twister was taken aback. Tommy seemed so eager just to get Twister to sit and chat with him, Twister was sure that the little boy had some topic in mind. Was it just attention that Tommy craved? After so long alone in the mountains, watching campers come and go and never being heard or seen.

"How long have you been dead?" he asked carefully. He wasn't sure how Tommy handled the "being dead" thing, but in their past conversation the little boy always changed the subject when they came to it. Twister recalled the woman on television mentioning that Tommy had disappeared five years ago, but had Tommy died then? For what seemed a long while, Tommy was silent. Twister would have even thought that he'd left if it weren't for the pervading knowing that the little ghost was indeed still there.

"_I don't know_," Tommy answered candidly. There was a sorrow in his voice but an almost uncaring as well, "_Time really doesn't matter when you're dead."_

"I guess it wouldn't," Twister returned, "So…why did you…why are you still here? Like…don't people go to heaven or something when they die?"

_"I don't know,_" Tommy replied, his tone wavering slightly, _"I think I was supposed to go…somewhere…but then…I don't think I was supposed to die."_

"That doesn't make sense," Twister retorted, straightening somewhat, "I mean, when it's your time, it's your time…there's no 'supposed to' in dying…is there?"

_"I was talking to some other dead people…"_

"You talk to other dead people?" Twister gaped.

_"Um…yes. Sometimes they don't always talk back, too into what they're doing…but…why? Does that seem strange?"_

"Uh…I just didn't think…I mean…"

_"We all see each other. It's like people who are alive are in one place, and people who are dead are in another, and it's all connected. I don't understand it though,"_ Tommy explained. Twister furrowed his brow, pondering on that statement for a moment while Tommy continued, _"But when I talked to other dead people…to other ghosts like me…they said that not everyone stays here. That sometimes they go somewhere else. That there's a reason that some people become ghosts when they die. But I never met anyone who knew why that was."_

"Have you…or any of the other ghosts you've talked to…have they ever met any people…_living people_ who could see or hear ghosts like me?" Twister asked, licking his lips that were chapped and cracked. He could taste a hint of blood on them. Tommy was quiet and Twister could sense that he was deep in thought trying to remember. It was a painstakingly long time before he answered.

_"No."_

Twister felt his heart sink. For a moment he'd been filled with the hope that maybe he wasn't alone. Maybe there were others out there who had to deal with this as well. People who could help him, explain things to him, maybe tell him how to make this all stop. With that one word, all his hopes were crushed and once more doubt infested his thoughts. Maybe he was really going insane.

_"That's why you're so cool! Because you can talk to me,_" Tommy exclaimed. Twister really didn't feel cool. He swallowed hard, pushing down the lump that was now blocking his throat. _"I'm kind of happy I died. Because I wouldn't have met you if I hadn't! You know, dying isn't so bad. You're life doesn't really flash before your eyes…and there's no bright white light…"_

"I know," I whispered, leaning back and pressing my palms into the cement sidewalk. I took a deep breath, "I died once."

There was a heartbeat pulsating through the night air. I could imagine Tommy with blinking eyes as he let that sink in.

_"You did. When? How? Why? What happened?"_

"A long time ago. I don't remember," Twister lied, quickly dismissing it, "I just know I did."

_"Maybe that's why you can see ghosts? Because you're part dead…or something_," Tommy suggested excitedly, _"It's like in comic books. You're a super hero! I could be your sidekick…"_

"Do you think about your life much?" Twister questioned solemnly. There was something eerie about how casually Tommy talked about being dead. Twister had to know. And then a great sadness overwhelmed Twister. He bent inside himself, it was all too much, his head felt like it was going to explode. And then as suddenly as it happened, it was gone. Twister grimaced, taking a few calming deep breaths before attempting to straighten somewhat.

_"That's kind of the reason why I came here_," Tommy whispered, and Twister was enveloped with a shadowing darkness creeping over him, _"You see…no one ever found my body. It's still up in the mountains."_

"Oh?" Twister murmured, his heart pounding malevolently in his chest.

_"I was thinking…wondering…if maybe…would you please…could you…find it?"

* * *

END A/N: That's it for now, I guess. Or forever, I don't know. We'll see what happens when it happens._

Please _**REVIEW**_. I don't get paid for writing these stories, it doesn't give me any great benefit of any kind. The only way I can "profit" from writing these things is if the people who read it give me a _**REVIEW**_. And now just some dinky little, "great story, write more" type of blurb, but an actual critique of what you liked and didn't like about the story. That's all.

Excuse any grammatical or typing errors, I didn't really get much of a chance to thoroughly proofread this one, so...yeah.

Thanks for reading.


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